A woman's hands are warm
by scarxtardis
Summary: Jaime arrives at Winterfell. Set directly after season 7.
1. Chapter 1

"Who goes there?"

Jaime raised his arms, his golden hand carefully concealed beneath his riding glove. He realised, giddily, that the Winterfell guards did not recognise him; donned in a humble riding shirt and breeches, a cloak of rabbit pelt around his person, he could have easily passed for a wandering Northman. Bronn, on the horse behind him, was dressed identically.

"A friend." Jaime dismounted his horse as they reached the gates. "An ally."

The guards looked at one another dubiously. "Name?"

"Bronn of the Blackwater," Bronn interceded, appearing next to him. "This here is Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. Lord Tyrion's brother."

Jaime turned to Bronn, his face incredulous. What the fuck are you doing? The two guards balked at one another, then looked back to the pair. Their eyes skimmed over their lowly garb, their cropped hair and their wind-chaffed faces. The left one narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "If you're… if he's the Kingslayer, where's his golden hand?" His eyes lingered on Jaime's handsome features, the hint of gold in his hair.

"A bad jape, men. I'm not the Kingslay-" responded Jaime, when Bronn grabbed him by the hand and twisted it the entire way round, eliciting a small popping sound. Jaime closed his eyes and sighed as Bronn waved at the guards with it. The guards froze.

"Right. That's sorted. Lord Tyrion 'ere?" Bronn asked, ignoring Jaime's glare. "I'm starving. We're fucking cold, men, let us in."

"Why the fuck would we do that?" the guard on the right's voice shook minutely. Jaime could tell it wasn't due to the cold. Gods, my reputation precedes me. Oathbreaker, oathbreaker, man without honour. He snatched his hand off Bronn, walked back to his horse and shoved it into his saddle bag with a withering glare Bronn's way.

"Because, lads," Jaime yelled over his shoulder, "we are here to fight for the living. Fetch the King in the North. We will answer to him, and him alone. Send him out here and we will show you mercy." He sauntered up to the pair, and smiled a cutting Lannister smile. "Lady Stark, too. Sansa."

The guards looked at one another hesitantly, but nodded, clearly intimidated. The heavy wooden gates closed behind them as they shuffled back behind the walls of Winterfell. Jaime looked at Bronn.

"Why?" he asked simply. "Just… why?"

Bronn shrugged. "They'd have found out eventually. Tyrion's here. What's the point in hiding?"

Jaime sighed, his breath a puff of mist in the icy air. He shook his head. "Jon Snow, Sansa and Arya Stark aren't my concern. Bran Stark is here. You know, the little boy I crippled for life. That is a minor issue, don't you think?"

Bronn shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. "Not my problem. You're a cripple now, too. They'll be right."

"They'll be right? I…" Jaime was interrupted by the creaking of the gates being opened. Bronn and Jaime straightened their posture. "Take off your hood," Jaime hissed.

The gates opened, and the King in the North stood before them. His dark eyes and hair were a shocking contrast to the snow that fell, but he looked as if he belonged in the lands of always winter. His face was severe, scarred and masculine, but his eyes were kind.

Beside him stood a tall girl of surpassing elegance, her recognisable Tully hair and Stark-pale skin hauntingly beautiful in this harsh environment. They looked formidable besides one another, but strong. Jaime had always thought himself and Cersei looked beautiful and threatening, but the hidden kindness, no; that had never been their strong suit.

Cersei. Oh, his heart ached for her, his entire being ached. Jaime had questioned himself the entire ride north, asking Bronn if he had done the right thing, if he had made the right decision… could he do this, truly? Abandon that which he had devoted his entire being, his entire life to? Why, oh why did her love come with such cruel conditions? She had willingly elected to send the entire continent to their dooms, all for that stupid chair. All for her pride. But he missed her, gods, he missed her. Every night he would picture her green eyes, so much like his, as he went to sleep; but slowly her face waned from his mind's eye

His love for his sister was an iron ball, wrapped around his ankle. He pushed her beautiful face out of his mind, and looked to Jon Snow.

"Kingslayer." Jon Snow did not smile. "We had not expected you so soon."

Jaime smirked. "I had not expected to be here so soon… King Snow. King Jon? Snow King?"

Sansa Stark looked Jaime in the eyes. "We are not going to listen to japes, Ser. Winter is here."

Jon ignored Jaime's jibe. "You are here with Cersei's troops, we gathered," he said. Bronn and Jaime shared a glance.

Jaime swallowed, his mouth dry. "There has been a… complication."

Jon and Sansa looked at one another. "A complication," Jon stated.

"Aye." Bronn tutted. "A pretty big cunt of a complication."

"We should have seen that she would do this," Sansa said to Jon as they stood in the main hall, around the trestle table on the raised dais. Jaime and Bronn stood across the table from them as they warmed themselves by the hearth, their teeth clinking as they shuddered. Jaime's southern blood could not fathom how Tyrion dealt with this. Tyrion. His stomach twisted like a knife had pierced him through the abdomen.

Only Jon Snow and Sansa knew they had arrived so far; Jaime's eyes had searched for her immediately as they passed through the gates, her pale blond hair and vast, muscular figure in that blue armour, but she was nowhere to be found. He did not ask where she was. His gaze had then searched for Tyrion. Where was his little brother and his dragon queen?

"How do we know we can trust you, Lannister?" asked Jon Snow.

"Lannister." He laughed, a puff of air through his nose. He nodded in Sansa's direction. "My vow to Lady Catelyn was to return Lady Sansa and Lady Arya to their home. Sansa is here because of my commands." And so he spoke, and so he spoke. Jaime had doubted he would not be turned away at the door; I am further than I intended to be, he reminded himself. He would barter his way through this. Make Tyrion proud.

"Aye, she is, Kingslayer. But…" Jon began, when Sansa took his arm, her blue eyes boring into his. Jon shut his mouth, and Sansa stepped forwards, her head held high.

"I am grateful for your vow to my mother, Ser. But I am also here, safe, in my home, because of Theon Greyjoy. I am here because of Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne. And I am here because of Jon." She looked to her bastard brother, smiling gently. "I understand you are affiliated with Brienne," affiliatedand having you send her has truly saved me many times. I thank you for that. Truly. But… your past crimes…" Sansa's forehead creased, "… Bran…"

Jaime swallowed. "Bran." He tasted that name on his tongue. Had he ever said it out loud? Not the "Stark boy," or "Ned's son," but Bran, a boy of ten, an innocent who had stumbled across a dangerous infidelity.

"Don't say his name," said Jon, his voice darkening. "You have no right."

"Jon," said Sansa gently.

"No, I understand." Jaime shuffled uncomfortably in his furs. His stump itched incessantly. "Not a day goes by that I don't regret pushing your brother from that window. Not a day." Jaime had never thought this day would come, so he did not know what to say. That were Tyrion were here, he would know how to apologise, how to make amends. "I had hoped my vow to Lady Catelyn might have…" he was lost. "I don't know. Earnt me an ounce of virtue."

Sansa and Jon were silent, watching him. Jaime looked to Bronn for guidance. Bronn nodded, urging him to continue. Jaime breathed in shakily. "I am a changed man." He lifted his stump. "I have received whichever gods punishment. Tyrion can vouch that I have better intentions. Brienne can vouch for that. I was distrustful. I will never be able to give Bran his legs back, but I can fight for the living. I can protect him as well as Brienne protected the girls under our oath. I offer up my sword to the north. Bronn and I will fight with you and Daenerys."

Silence. Jaime exhaled, and drew Widow's Wail. "Valyrian Steel. You said it can kill these creatures."

Jon took a step forward, examining the blade as Jaime held it. "Where did you get this?"

"It was forged from your father's blade. Brienne has the other."

Jon looked up at Jaime. "This is made from… Ice?"

Jaime nodded. "It was Joffrey's wedding gift." He looked to Sansa. "I'm sure you remember, my lady."

Sansa's eyelids fluttered. "Widow's Wail." She paused. "He shredded Tyrion's book with it."

Jon shook his head. "We have more than enough dragonglass for weapons now." He looked to Sansa, who stood up a bit straighter. She bobbed her head once. "We can set aside our enmities. But aye, you can never give Bran what you took from him. That is one thing you cannot forget. The North Remembers. However, you are a renowned swordsman, and the enemy is here. You would do well to stay out of our way, but you will fight for us." Jon Snow's dark eyes met Jaime's, solemn. They flickered to Bronn. "Pod spoke highly of you, Bronn. You may stay as well."

"Pod with the magic cock?" Bronn's face lit up. "Good lad."

"You will be granted suitable rooms in what used to be the brothel," said Jon, ignoring Bronn.

Jaime gave a minute, humble bow. "My thanks, Jon Snow," he said. In what life could he have ever imagined thanking the bastard of the north? Jaime did not know. Jon nodded curtly, and promptly walked to the door. He hesitated at the threshold, the wind ruffling the fur on his cloak.

"Stay away from Bran, Lannister." His words were clipped and dangerous, his eyes unforgiving. Jaime gave a small nod. Sansa following behind Jon, her movements like a blade through silk.

"Lady Stark," Jaime called after her. He had to know.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Yes, Ser Jaime?"

"Where is your protector?" his voice trembled slightly.

Sansa's face softened. "She is training the children in the yard with our sister, near the Godswood."

Jaime smiled. "Thank you, my lady."

He could hear her before he could see her.

"Try not to lunge," she stated firmly. "Your opponent will aim straight for your eyes."

A gaggle of northern children clutching haphazard dragonglass weaponry were organised in three parallel lines, one consisting of the tallest children and teens, one of medium height, and the shortest. Facing the shortest line was a lithe, pale girl with short dark hair and large grey eyes that screamed Stark. Arya, Jaime thought. She had fulfilled their vow. His eyes panned across to the opponent facing the second line. It was none other than Podrick Payne, who suited the winter no more than Jaime himself.

And then, there she was.

He had turned this moment over in his mind each night on the way north. When it was not Cersei's face that he dreamed of, it was hers, and when it was not hers, it was Cersei's. He stood by the dog's kennels that he had once found Tyrion near, and waited. He thanked the gods Bronn had gone in search of food; he could not face his jests, not now.

"Hyah!" Arya Stark leapt gracefully towards her young opponent, her feet as light as a cat's. Her movements were as sleek as she was, but Jaime could tell she was holding back. Jaime was in awe of her; he had not seen a Westerosi fight like this before.

The practise continued for only a few minutes before Brienne told them it was time to rest. All their noses were red and running, their teeth chattering despite their exercise. They all sighed gratefully, and hurried for the warmth of the great hall. Arya slunk away behind them, but Pod stayed beside Brienne.

Brienne was out of breath and red-faced, but she remained in the sparring yard, wiping down Oathkeeper. Snowflakes turned her blonde hair translucent, and Jaime could not help but speak. "Nice sword," said Jaime, leaning against the wooden structure of the kennel casually. He was anything but casual.

Brienne's head spun towards him, and her stupid blue eyes turned stupidly soft and it made Jaime stupidly angry that she looked so sad. He smiled at her, his face moving, unbidden, into an expression of pure, utter relief. Thank the gods, she's still breathing this godforsaken air. They took the sight of one another in, analysing for injuries, for thoughts that could be read on their faces.

"Ser Jaime," Podrick broke the silence amiably, bowing slightly.

Jaime blinked, then smiled at the lad. "Oh, Podrick. It is good to see you are well. The North is treating you kindly, I'd hope?"

Pod shrugged. "It's cold, is all, m'lord. But I can't complain about the company," he said.

Jaime looked back to Brienne. His stomach clenched for some incomprehensible reason that he did not recognise. "Can't you be glad to see me at least once, Brienne?" He cocked an ice-encrusted eyebrow. "It's disheartening when you look so scandalised every time I show up."

The corner of her wide mouth quirked upwards, but it vanished as soon as it had appeared. She took a careful step towards him. "You're here."

Jaime looked at his feet, frowning. "Am I? You sure?"

"Cersei…"

"She isn't sending troops north. She lied to you all, she lied to me, so I'm here. There's nothing more to it." Jaime's jaw clenched, a hard lump forming in his throat. "She's Aerys reborn. We will speak no more of it." His heart was heavy.

Pod's sparring sword fell from his hand, and Brienne blanched. "No one is being sent from the capital to fight the enemy to the north?" she asked.

Jaime shook his head.

Brienne's lips pursed, and she shared a knowing glance with Podrick, who nodded and followed Arya and the children.

Once he was out of sight, she took a step closer to him. "But you came anyway," Brienne continued. "Does the king know you are here?" her voice sounded exactly as it always had. The comfort that her honourable, honest tone gave Jaime surprised him. Or it didn't. He did not know.

"Yes, he does. I could hardly sneak past the gates, could I?"

They had begun to walk side by side through Winterfell, their steps falling into synchronisation. The people of Winterfell were busy, be it forging weapons, sewing cloaks, plucking fowl, preparing for the battle. Brienne's blue armour looked like the ice of the great wall in the overcast wintry light. Her skin was weathered, her hair a mess of blonde straw, her lips chafed. She looked radiant.

"You fulfilled our vow," said Jaime, as he stopped her besides the great hall. "I saw Arya."

Brienne looked downwards, ever humble. Her eyelashes had snowflakes on them. "She's an extremely talented fighter. Braavosi training," she said fondly.

"She is skilled. As is Sansa, I believe." Jaime paused momentarily. The silence that came next was deafening. How could he not have anything to say to her? After all this time? He was proud of her? Of them? He was grateful? Ecstatic?

"I… I am glad to see you, Brienne," he said.

Brienne's face lit up in a soft, hidden smile. "I… and I am glad to see you, Ser Jaime." Ser Jaime. Still so formal, and she's cleaned vomit out of my beard while I rotted in chains. Her face hardened again. "I am sorry about Cersei."

"Don't," warned Jaime in a low voice. Brienne's face twitched. "I'm sorry. But please… just… don't, Brienne." He did not want to look at her expression anymore. "I don't want your pity. I'm sick of pity."

"Good," said Brienne. "Because you won't find any here."

I've missed you, he wanted to say. The words rested on the tip of his tongue. Then the sound of a horn blew, twice, and the clanging of the bell tower rung out around them. Everyone in the yard looked up.

"What does the horn mean?" Jaime asked. Brienne had already begun walking in the direction of te main hall.

"The Wildings have returned," she called over her shoulder. "With others."

The sound of a dragon screeching sent shivers through Jaime's body. They were here.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaime stood conspicuously besides Bronn and Pod as the Wintefell gates were opened. The screeches of the dragons echoed above them, and as Jaime looked up to the hazy winter sky, he could see the shadows of the great beasts swirling in the mist. Jaime was immediately thrown back into the battlefield, the fire that engulfed his soldiers, the dry ash of their remains, and the water that infiltrated his lungs at the bottom of the Blackwater Rush.

Bronn looked up. "I hope that one doesn't recognise me," he pointed to the largest of the two silhouettes that loomed ominously. "Fucked him up."

"Me neither," said Jaime. "But more so, I hope that one doesn't." He nodded towards the open gates.

A long, silver-blonde braid that matched her silver-white coat marked her as the Targaryen girl. Jaime had gotten a look at her when he had charged her on the most recent Field of Fire, but he could see now that she was strikingly beautiful as she marched over the icy mud beneath her. Behind her followed another beautiful woman, foreign, with curly dark hair that framed her head like a laurel, and with her a stoic faced foreign man with a helmet.

Jorah Mormont, as recognisable as ever, led Daenerys's army through to their Winterfell abodes, but it was clear they struggled with the icy cold more than Jaime and the other Kings Landing-born men. Their blood was accustomed to the Meereneese sun and the unforgiving desert of the Great Dothraki sea. This would make them drop like flies, even if Jaime's army had not been able to. He was not sure he desired such a thing anymore.

"Those fuckers again," mumbled Bronn. "At least they didn't have a good look at us on the battlefield. We'd be fucked otherwi…" Bronn trailed off as Tyrion came through the archway.

Jaime's stomach lurched when he saw him. He heard a sharp intake of breath from both Bronn and Podrick as well. Tyrion's beard had grown out, so thick and dark he hardly looked like a Lannister. His hair was longer and unkempt, and he wore a doublet of fur that revealed the emblazoned dragon sigil, and what more, his hand of the queen brooch.

Arya and Sansa stood with Jon Snow between them as they greeted Daenerys's liege. Brienne stood, a silent steed, next to Sansa. Brienne's face was expressionless, until her blue eyes flickered over in Jaime's direction. He gave a small smile, taking in her face again. He'd missed the wench, to be true, and their constant arguing and her stubbornness and bull-headed loyalty. without the ghost of his sister haunting him.

Jon Snow took a step forward, and his scarred face warmed as he embraced the Dragon queen. They shared some soft words, her silver hair complementing the black of his own as hey conversed. They pulled away from one another when Arya gave a small cough. Sansa bit her lip as to not giggle. They were still just Cat Stark's little girls.

Jon shook his head at Arya, then turned towards the people of Winterfell. "Northerners! Winterfell!" his powerful voice demanded the attention of all his loyal subjects. "This is Daenerys Targaryen. She will-"

"…Rightful Queen of the Andals, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea-" a soft voice interjected. Daenerys turned and grinned at the dark-haired girl. The serious man's face beside her broke into an amused grin.

Jaime raised an eyebrow at Bronn. Bronn shrugged.

"Do not fret, sweetling," Daenerys giggled, "Jon does not need to introduce all that."

Jon smiled at the dark girl. "My apologies, Missandei," he chuckled. His face grew serious again. "Northerners, this is Daenerys Targaryen. She and her host will help us face the coming storm. With her, she has her army of the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Her advisors are Missandei of Naath, Grey Worm and Ser Jorah Mormont. Her hand of the Queen is Tyrion Lannister," he announced.

The gasps and hushed whispers of the people were enough to show that perhaps Lannister was still not a desired Northerly name.

"Yes, yes, it is I, the Imp of your nightmares," Tyrion's voice sung over the suspicious garbles. Jaime could not help but smile at the sound of his witty tone. Daenerys shot a glare at him, but Jaime could tell she was mildly amused. "I am not your enemy, friends. I am here to advise both Daenerys and your King in the North."

Jon Snow and Daenerys nodded in agreement. "Lord Tyrion is as wise a man as we could hope for. His name does not mean anyone should treat him with disrespect." He felt Jon Snow's eyes skim over the crowd, falling on Jaime. A warning.

Tyrion was not looking at Jon Snow, though, or Daenerys. His eyes were fixed on Sansa Stark. He did not speak as he walked with purpose towards her. Brienne stepped forwards, her face bewildered, but Sansa put a hand on hers and stopped her. As if Sansa had predicted it, she knelt on the snow and embraced Tyrion gently, without speaking. The whispers and murmurs quietened.

Their interaction did not last long. Tyrion pulled away and they returned to their respective monarchs. Jaime looked at Arya's face; it was emotionless, but her eyebrows were knitted slightly. Brienne wore the exact same look. Jon seemed comfortable, presumably because he knew Tyrion.

"Queen Daenerys," Sansa she stepped back into place beside Jon, but her eyes were searching, almost desperately. "Where is Theon Greyjoy?"

Daenerys looked to Jorah, who stood on her left. "He has gone in search of his sister, who was taken captive by their uncle," she said softly. Sansa nodded, but her eyes were devastated. Jon looked between her and Daenerys.

"We… we welcome you to Winterfell, my Queen. We will feed your host in the Great Hall," said Jon Snow. Jon's eyes moved over his own people, fixing his gaze on Jaime once again. He had every reason to distrust Jaime, yet it irked Jaime nevertheless. If he could trust blindly, why could they not?

Tyrion's eyes followed the direction of Jon's, and his and Jaime's eyes met.

Jaime swallowed. Little brother, he thought, I've missed you too. Tyrion paled, but the rest of Daenerys's host continued to pile into the great hall. Tyrion hesitated when his eyes fell on Podrick and Bronn.

"Tyrion?" Jaime heard Daenerys's gentle voice call from the entrance to the hall.

"Go in, Daenerys," he said, not looking at her. "I have some debts to pay."

"… then we were sold to the fighting pits of Meereen, and there she was, and well, I had a lot to drink and I said some words and here I am now," Tyrion continued. Jaime was silent. The sound of the wind echoed through the godswood, where the pair were sat across from one another near the warm springs.

"I thought I could never forgive you," Jaime said in a low voice, "For changing sides."

Tyrion smiled. "For betraying the mother of madness?" his words came out in fog. "For following a stronger, gentler queen?"

"Gentler? She almost killed me," spat Jaime.

"You almost killed yourself, you mean," rebuked Tyrion. "I saw you, I was on the hill. You charged at her! She had Drogon with her, for gods sake!"

Jaime scoffed. "It has a name? A bloody name?" he asked incredulously. "Tyrion, she burnt my entire army with it!"

Tyrion opened his mouth to say something, but he let the silence hang between them. He looked at Jaime. "Yet you're here anyway."

Yes, I'm here. To save us all. "Cersei… wasn't sending troops."

Tyrion blinked. "Can't say I'm surprised."

"You're the first who hasn't been." They both rose from their seats on the rocks, and took each other in. Jaime knelt and held Tyrion close. "Don't leave me again," Jaime whispered.

"Never," replied Tyrion. He looked at Jaime's stump, then gestured to his hand of the Queen brooch. "Now, you see, we match, I have a golden…"

"I should've kept you away from Bronn as soon as you came in," Jaime shook his head. It was then that the loudest, bawdiest laugh since Robert Baratheon's reverberated from the courtyard. "My gods, what was that?"

Tyrion chuckled. "That, Jaime, was someone you'd be best to stay away from."

They walked to the courtyard and were greeted by a hoard of Wildlings, clad in furs and armed with clubs. Jaime was in awe of them. He inspected them all, their muscular, tall forms and their bearded faces, when his eyes fell on the reddest hair he had ever seen, and a matching fiery beard.

Across from him was Brienne, tall and glorious, who had an expression of utter exasperation on her face.

"That there is Jon's Wildling…" Tyrion searched for a word, "… ambassador. Tormund Giantsbane."

Jaime's stomach twisted with… was it anger? … as he saw this Giantsbane make a suggestive gesture at Brienne. "Ah."

"He's a brilliant fighter, if Mormont and Jon Snow are to be believed. Fought for the King Beyond the Wall, then agreed to bring his Wildlings south of the Wall to fight for Jon." He looked up at Jaime, then to the Wildling. "He's quite benevolent, clearly."

Jaime nodded tersely. "I'm sure."

Tyrion looked up at Jaime, his lips quirking upwards. "They'd fit together well, don't you think? Tall, rugged warriors."

Maybe they would, Jaime thought. Brienne deserves some happiness in her life. "Perhaps."

Tyrion looked between them again, then coughed. "I need to return to my queen. Don't do anything stupid, brother. She doesn't know you're here, yet." Tyrion turned in the direction of the Great Keep, and Jaime nodded, unhearing.

Brienne's face was pinched in a frown, and the Wildling wasn't leaving. Jaime strode past the coarse, bellowing pack of Wildlings and stood beside Brienne, looking this Tormund Giantsbane in the eye- they were of height, though Tormund was built like a barrel.

"Ser Jaime," said Brienne, surprised, "I…"

"Are you harassing Lady Brienne, Wildling?" Jaime enquired, his voice dangerously soft. He looked to Brienne. "Is he harassing you?"

Brienne's forehead creased. "It's nothing I can't handle, Ser," she replied evenly. She almost seemed annoyed. "He is simply…"

"… telling a woman how magnificent she is," said Tormund. Jaime snorted. Tormund looked Jaime up and down. "Watch ye'self, sellsword, and mind ye' own shit. I ain't harrassin' no one." The Wildling's voice was as coarse as his beard. "Except you, maybe."

Jaime's body coiled. He did not know why he was feeling this rage, but he could not control it. It was akin to his reaction to Robert with Cersei, but also completely different. Stop while you're ahead, he told himself, but the words tumbled out. "I am Ser Jaime Lannister, of Casterly Rock. Watch your words." Jaime wanted to kick himself for revealing this, but he couldn't stop himself.

The Wilding roared with laughter. "Har! The sisterfucker!" he guffawed. "You're handsome, aye, a soft southern princeling. Come on then, pull your cock out, give us a…"

"Tormund," said Brienne. Tormund shut his mouth, shrugging. Jaime looked at Brienne, uncomprehending. Surely not, he thought, searching her face. Her eyes bore into his, and he knew he should've stayed where he was. This was not his place. He had no right, but his stupid Lannister pride had reared its ugly head.

"Watch yourself, Wilding." Jaime's mouth twisted into a snarl, but before he could speak, Brienne interjected.

"I am having no trouble with Tormund Giantsbane, ser. However, I must return to Lady Sansa," she said, staring at Jaime coolly, then looked to Tormund, whose eyes were fixed on her massive form. It gave Jaime a bad taste in his mouth. "Ser Jaime, if you would escort me."

Tormund looked wistfully after Brienne as they left. As they walked away from the courtyard in the direction of the Great Keep, Brienne avoided Jaime's eyes. "A Wildling? Brienne of Tarth with a Wildling?" Jaime asked in disbelief.

"I'm not with him, Ser," she replied, "and he wasn't harassing me."

"It looked like he was being… obscene to you," Jaime retorted. "I thought maybe…" what did you think, idiot?

"That I needed help?" she stopped and looked at Jaime, her eyebrows knitted together. "I can handle myself, Ser. You know that better than anyone."

Jaime ran his hand through his cropped hair. "Ser, ser, ser. Have you forgotten my name, Brienne?" Jaime knew he was being irrational. He assumed his anger was built on a protectiveness, but the twinge in his gut that he tried to push away he recognised, but he didn't want to put a name to it. Has she forgotten everything?

Brienne shook her head, huffing. "If you want to integrate with the Northerners, that includes the Wildlings. You can't let your… Lannister blood…"

"I know, I know. I was concerned for a friend's wellbeing, nothing more." And it was the truth, wasn't it? "I don't know why I bothered," he mumbled under his breath.

Brienne sniffed at that. "Well, thank you, Jaime." There it was. His name on her lips. Her voice that had brought him back from the seven hells. "I must go and find Sansa and Arya. The Great War is coming, and you'd best make yourself… useful. Daenerys will find out you're here soon." Her voice shook slightly.

Jaime looked at his stump, void of the golden hand. "Useful."

"Jaime." Her voice was gentle.

"Alright. I'll train one of those groups. I'm better than Pod at fighting, even with my left hand."

"He's better than he was." Brienne rolled her eyes. "I… I don't care what you do, Jaime. Just…" she paused, "don't do anything stupid." And with that, she left to find the Stark girls.

Jaime sighed. Winter really was here.


	3. Chapter 3

"Jaime."

Tyrion's voice came from outside his door in the guest hall. "Come in," said Jaime, as he tried to pull off his soaking boot besides the meagre fireplace. Jaime sighed, steam escaping his mouth. He couldn't warm up, no matter how hard he tried. How did Brienne and Tyrion do this?

His brother's curly head appeared in the threshold. "She wants to talk with you," Tyrion said softly.

Jaime's mouth went dry. "Who does?"

"The Queen. Daenerys."

Jaime's heart sunk. "She knows I'm here," he said flatly. Tyrion nodded apologetically.

"I am her hand, and Jon Snow is her…" Tyrion looked at the floor. "I don't know." His eyes were solemn and vaguely sad.

"Are they…?"

"Yes." Tyrion's eyes flicked up.

Jaime frowned at Tyrion. "Are you…?"

"She's growing impatient. We will see you in the great hall," interrupted Tyrion, as he gestured for Jaime to move. "Get your boots back on and see you shortly."

Jaime chuckled. "Now you're just walking into the jokes."

Tyrion smirked and left.

"You murdered my father." Her voice was even, ethereal as she was; her eyes were large and wraithlike, her skin pale and beautiful. Her hair echoed the snow that fell outside. "You tried to kill Bran Stark. You tried to kill me."

All of Daenerys's advisors, the Stark loyalists, The Wildlings, various inhabitants of the North and a majority of the Unsullied and Dothraki were packed into the great hall. Missandei of Naath and the leader of the Unsullied stood in the corner, behind the panel of self-proclaimed monarchs; Tormund Giantsbane stood beside the Unsullied boy, and Brienne, standing sentinel, beside him. Jaime couldn't help but laugh to himself at the Wildling's pathetic attempts to woo Brienne; he surely couldn't really believe he could win her over, did he? It was ludicrous, Jaime thought. Jaime shook the thoughts way, focussing on the problem at hand.

Jaime stood before the Dragon Queen, standing as tall as he could. A Lion would not cow before a dragon infant, his father's voice echoed in his head.

"I do not deny my crimes," Jaime looked Daenerys in the eyes as she sat before him. Tyrion sat to her left, Jon Snow to her right. Jorah Mormont stood behind her. To Snow's right, Sansa, Arya Stark; but instead of Bran Stark, Davos Seaworth. "I have made mistakes in my past, but so have we all. So have you. You burnt thousands of my men, burnt Dickon Tarly-"

He heard a wavering intake of breath come from the back of the hall. He did not care to turn and see who it was.

"Why did you let him in here?" Daenerys interjected. "They were my enemies. You were my nemesis." Tyrion shook his head at her. She quietened, but not without scowling.

"Yes, your enemies. I was your enemy, and you were a threat. But I am no longer your enemy. I saw what that thing was at the Dragonpit. I have night terrors about it every night. That is your nemesis now," said Jaime. Jon Snow leaned forwards in his seat. "I will swear allegiance to the North, and I will protect the North," Jaime continued.

"And your sist-"

"Cersei," his voice caught in his throat. Tyrion's eyebrows knitted together. "Cersei has failed to uphold her side of the agreement. I have forsaken my allegiance to her." He heard some whispers and gasps from behind him; Lord Varys, no doubt.

Daenerys's chin lifted slightly, her eyes giving nothing away. Jon Snow had clearly already told her, but hearing it from Jaime confirmed the awful truth. "I see." She looked at Jon. "Why have you made the decision now, after so many years, to forsake your sister and your queen who you served so loyally and attempted to murder a child of ten for?"

Jaime took a shaky breath. "Fuck loyalty," he said.

His eyes flicked momentarily to Brienne, who smiled softly. He'd hoped she had remembered.

Jon Snow coughed. "Fuck loyalty," he repeated slowly. Jaime blinked, silent.

"I understand now that this goes beyond houses and loyalties and allegiances. I want us to survive."

The hall erupted in murmurs. "He'll probably kill us all for his sister before the war even begins!" a loud voice boomed. "He's the Kingslayer, he'll slay you!" another cried. Jaime turned around to the people and sneered. They honestly think I'd be here just to betray them?, he thought. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Silence!" shouted Jon. Thank the gods, Jaime thought. "The war has already begun. I have not called you all here to solely judge the Kingslayer," Jon announced solemnly. "We cannot worry ourselves about betrayal when there is a much more serious threat that is inching closer by the hour." He inhaled deeply, and Jaime dreaded the words about to escape him.

"The Wall has been breached. Tormund was at Eastwatch, and Bran saw the Night King and his army, including…" Jon looked at Daenerys, whose eyes were dead, "… A reanimated dragon."

Jaime's stomach flipped. The hall became a cacophony of chaos and crying and yelling. Sansa, Arya and Bran clasped each other's hands, and Tyrion put a hand on his forehead, looking to Jaime. Jorah Mormont looked to Daenerys, whose eyes were staring straight ahead of her. Missandei and the Unsullied leader embraced.

Jaime looked to Brienne, and the terror instilled within him was unlike anything he'd ever felt. Brienne's blue eyes, wide with fear, echoed his own emotions that coursed through him. He noticed with a grimace that Tormund Giantsbane also looked towards Brienne.

"The Brotherhood without Banners were lost, but we have received word that Beric Dondarrion and Gendry Waters are near the Last Hearth," said Jon, and Jaime saw Arya Stark's head turn sharply to Jon. It was the first glimpse of a facial reaction he had seen from her since arriving.

Daenerys stood up. "Enough!" she resounded over the noise. Jaime noticed her eyes were moist. "They may have taken my child away from me, but I will not let the Night King destroy my others." The hall settled slightly. "We can, and we will, destroy them."

"We have enough food for the winter, and we have seen that everyone be taught how to fight with dragonglass," piped in Sansa Stark, her gentle voice soothing the people. "Dragonfire can destroy the dead, too," she looked at Daenerys, who smiled at her gratefully.

"We have been waiting for this war for too long," said Jon Snow. "It is here, and we will fight. But not today," he said. "We have approximately a week until they reach the ice planes near Eastwatch, due to their slow speed. Once there, Daenerys will take her dragons and try to burn as many as she can. What they cannot burn, we will kill with dragonglass. All of us." Jon returned his gaze to Jaime. "Including you, Kingslayer."

Jaime nodded, bowing his head. "I will."

Jon Snow dismissed him to the side, and Jaime went and stood beside Bronn. "Should've had a Valyrian steel hand made," he whispered. Jaime couldn't help but chuckle. Jaime watched as Bronn's face screwed up, making it craggier than it already was.

"What is it?" Jaime murmured back. "You look like you're taking a shit."

"The Scorpion," said Bronn.

Jaime frowned, but realisation dawned on him. "The Scorp-"

"I cannot guarantee that we will all survive this," Said Jon Snow, as he looked out towards his loyalists, the armies, the common people. That silenced Jaime and Bronn, but they would discuss that later. He really is a king, Jaime pondered, a Stark through and through. "But I can guarantee that I will keep you as well-armed and as prepared as you can possibly be. Daenerys will go North in two days to smoke them out, and the following week we will travel north to fight." He searched the eyes of every soul in the hall. "Are you with me, now and always?"

"Now and Always!" the people cried, and Jaime turned to look at Tyrion, whose eyes were sad, his face pensive. He did not want to say goodbye.

Jaime would make sure he wouldn't need to.

"You can't help train the children," said Arya, "you should go and help put the furs on the armour, or pack rations." She sharpened her skinny sword on a nearby rock. Gods, she looked like Ned, thought Jaime. Her brown hair was tied back in a similar way, and her grey eyes had that honest look; however, hers seemed colder, darker.

Jaime looked at the Stark girl, bemused. "Have you… have forgotten who I am?" he asked. "Training is the best place for me. It's all I can offer."

Arya cocked her dark eyebrow. "No, but the left-handed children have me to learn from," she said harshly. "Why don't you… I don't know, go and push a child out another window."

Jaime's jaw quivered. "I am sorry."

Arya shrugged, turning away from him. "I know. Still doesn't give him his legs back."

Jaime looked at the ground. "I made…"

"An oath to my mother, yes, I know," Arya huffed. "I guess I can thank you for that. Thank you for Brienne, anyway."

Jaime could see Brienne talking with Sansa across the yard. "She's honourable. More honourable than I ever could hope to be." Jaime ran a hand over his ever-greying blonde head.

"At least we agree on that," said Arya. She paused. "You… you can help sharpen the children's weapons." She left it at that, and Jaime sighed. Being ordered around by a seventeen-year-old girl Northern girl, he thought to himself. How far you've fallen, and how far you've risen.

Jaime made his way over to Brienne and Sansa. "Lady Brienne," he said.

The pair looked at him, and Brienne nodded as Sansa left. Sansa smiled softly as she turned towards the Great Keep, and Jaime returned it.

"An ice dragon," said Jaime. "A bloody ice dragon."

"I know," said Brienne. "I've always thought I had a chance in a fight. But now…" she shrugged her shoulders.

"You have a chance," said Jaime sharply. "You've always got a chance, Brienne."

Brienne's eyes met his. Jaime hesitated, fearing he'd said too much. He avoided her gaze, looking around. He wanted to get his words across.

"Brienne," he began, "Bronn said something earlier. When we were fighting Daenerys…"

"You're not going to…"

"Let me finish, Brienne," said Jaime. Brienne's mouth pursed. "When we were fighting her, and the black dragon, Bronn managed to shoot it in the haunch. It wasn't enough to kill it, but that's simply because it was the biggest dragon."

Brienne's face was shocked. "With a crossbow?"

"It was called the Scorpion. It was a giant crossbow, manufactured by that necrophile cunt who I owe my stump to. It could've easily taken down one of the smaller dragons." He watched her face come to the realisation as he had. It was a glorious sight. "If we could… with dragonglass…"

"You think this… Scorpion could…"

"Bronn believes it could. He's telling Tyrion right now." Jaime looked up at the white-grey sky. "We could win this war. Jon Snow believes it, Daenerys believes it. Do you?"

Before she could answer, their talk was interrupted. "My beauty," a gruff voice came from behind Jaime. Brienne sighed.

Jaime turned around, a tight smile on his face. "Tormund," Jaime greeted him. "You off to find the Brotherhood?"

Tormund ignored him. "Gods, you are larger and even more glorioys than I remember," Tormund shoved Jaime out of the way. "In two days I leave with the Dragon queen to find the Brotherhood and begin fighting," he purred, his voice a deep rumble. Brienne crossed her arms, standing tall as she looked down at the Wildling.

"You do," she replied. Jaime's neck was tight. How dare he push me, he thought.

"I want t' make the most of these last two days. They could be the last two days of m'whole life."

Jaime watched Brienne's face go from irritated to mildly concerned. For fuck's sakee, Jaime thought, sickened.

"What are you talking to me for, then?" Brienne asked, catching a snowflake on her hand.

Tormund took a step closer to her, until they were only inches apart. Jaime laughed audibly.

"I want t' make the most of you, my beauty." Tormund's voice was a low growl. "We could rule the world, you and I, warriors-"

"Tormund," Jaime's smile was so tight he felt like his skin would snap. Gods, I sound like Cersei, he thought. "The Lady Brienne is clearly not interested. You ought to be preparing for your journey north." His voice was measured, but the anger that flowed as an undercurrent was clear.

Tormund guffawed, not looking away from Brienne. "The lady can decide that for herself, Knightling," said Tormund. "What do you say, my warrior queen? I might be dead in three days. Grant me dying wish."

Brienne stared down at Tormund, then at Jaime. "Tormund, I…" though it was glacial, Brienne's face was flushed. "Ser Jaime, if you would leave us…"

What? Jaime was astounded. He felt his jaw slacken. "Brienne, he might…" Jaime took a step forward.

"Leave, Ser," said Brienne. Jaime shut his jaw and clenched it tightly. Tormund looked at him as if to say, I win.

Jaime straightened, his pride hurt, and spun on his heel. Fucking wench, he thought. Doesn't she know better? He fought the urge to look over his shoulder at them. Last night in this world. What a fucking jape.

Tyrion and Bronn had just left the Great Keep, and were walking towards Jaime, their eyes hopeful.

"We've decided to…" Tyrion began, but Jaime stormed past them. "Alright, die, then," Tyrion muttered. "Fucking idiot, what's he…?"

Bronn shook his head in confusion, until his eyes fell on Brienne and Tormund, still conversing. "Aha."

Tyrion followed Bronn's gaze, then looked back to him. "Oh," he said. "I knew it. I KNEW it."


	4. Chapter 4

"You came back to me," she said, her eyes brimming with lust and love and sweet relief. "I knew you wouldn't leave me… you need me, and I need you." Her voice was sensual, susurrus, but her breath was cool on Jaime's neck, aromatic with wine of the arbor. Her cold hands were on his chest, and his muscle coiled at her icy touch. "We are a part of one another…" she took his remaining hand and lead it down to touch her stomach. "And our child will be a part of us." Her immaculate, unblemished face was untouched by the winds of winter, yet she was so cold.

"You're… so cold, Cersei," Jaime said, reaching his hand up to run his hand over her cheekbone… but her face evaporated at his touch, his hand finding only the cold air. He panicked, and spun around. He was in her chambers, but they were dark, the hearth unlit. Jaime could see her fair head peeping out from under the silk-lined blanket, and frowned. He approached her sleeping figure, slowly as to not wake her. As he pulled back the coverlet, she screamed from her bed of blood, the sheets a Lannister crimson, her hair a Lannister gold.

"You did this," Cersei shrieked at him, a banshee. Jaime felt tears well, unbidden, behind his eyes.

"No, Cersei, I didn't… I couldn't let you… you conspired with Euron Greyjoy and didn't tell me!"

"You left me! Your other half, you left me to die!" she writhed in her blood, the stink of metal and flesh overwhelming Jaime's senses. "How could you leave me? I gave you everything! I loved you!"

Once, he thought, once you did. "You betrayed us all…" Jaime's words were stuck in his throat. "You didn't love…"

"You betrayed me! You LEFT ME!" she shrieked as she shot out of the bed, and her body was rotten, falling from the bone, her delicate, feminine hands stretched out as they took Jaime by the throat.

Her screaming reached a crescendo as Jaime shot up in his own bed of blood. Disoriented, he felt the dampness around him and the cold night air. He was shivering, and as his eyes adjusted he realised he was in the small guest chamber in the guest hall that he had been granted. Winterfell. Jaime took a shuddering breath, grounding himself.

He fell back onto the pallet mattress, wiping his face down. That was when only one name from that dream echoed in his head; Euron Greyjoy. Jaime's stomach dropped.

He leapt out of bed into the cold night air, and felt the sweat on his chest slowly harden into tiny icy droplets. He could not feel the cold right now- he had to warn the others. How had he forgotten such vital information?

Jaime was practically bare as he crossed the Winterfell training yards in the dead of night, his meagre candle teetering on its platform as he shook uncontrollably from the cold. His beard grew frosty. His boots were soaked through, and the fur he had taken with him from Kings Landing was thinning already.

He stumbled into Winterfell's great keep, sighing with relief as the warmth of the torches lining the walls emanated sweet heat. He knew that the bedchambers were not on the first story, like the Red Keep, so he took the winding stairs upwards. He finally came to what looked like the level with bedchambers. He had no clue which chamber was Tyrion's, which, to his amusement, he knew he shared with Davos Seaworth. He had no clue which was Jon Snow's and likely Daenerys's, or which one was Sansa's.

The largest of the chamber doors must be Snow's, he considered; Tyrion and Davos' would likely be the one beside that one. He lifted his hand to knock.

"Ser Jaime?"

Jaime turned and Brienne stood, in possibly the longest night shift he had ever seen, her large, guileless eyes staring at him in bewilderment, darkened by the torch's glow. Jaime laughed harshly. She never looked like she was expecting, nor glad, to see him. He could see vaguely the outline of her form through the thick shift, and felt his body respond unwillingly. He forced himself to look her in the eyes.

"You're awake?" he quipped, keeping his voice low. "Have you been busy with your Wildling? I have to be honest, I always had an inkling that bears were your type."

"Why are you here?" she replied, her voice equally as quiet.

"Thought I told you earlier. To fight the dead." Brienne didn't say anything. Jaime looked at her squarely. "I'm here right now because I just remembered some information that had escaped my mind," Jaime sighed. "Nothing to worry your honourable stubborn head about." Brienne flinched. Jaime turned back to the door.

"Information." Brienne paused. "Ser Jaime, Tormund Giantsbane won't harm me. I know that," she said. "I trust him."

Jaime huffed a laugh. "You trust him." He shrugged his shoulders facetiously. He could feel himself being petty, but he couldn't stop it. "Fine. Trust him. It's the end of the world, make the most of it. Want him to make you feel like a woman? Do that. I have more important matters on my mind at this point in time, Brienne. Go back to bed." His voice was sharp. He didn't understand why he was being so terse with her. You're not jealous, are you? He thought. No. That was ridiculous. He could have any woman in the world. Brienne didn't count.

Brienne shook her head in frustration. "You don't need to have concern for me. That is all I am telling you."

Jaime groaned. Had she forgotten the sapphires? The bearpit? "Well, clearly not. You dismissed me easily enough yesterday." He moved his stump in anger. Gods, he wished Bronn would give him his fucking hand back. Bloody humiliating.

"I dismissed you because I wanted to talk to Tormund." Brienne frowned at him, her broad face quizzical.

"Clearly!" he was growing tired. He felt his voice growing louder, and it echoed around the stone walls. He took a deep breath. "I know you can protect yourself. I wouldn't have sent you to protect the Stark girls otherwise, nor to parley with the Blackfish at the siege of Riverrun. I don't care who you spend your nights with, wench. I just care if they're worthy." Jaime coughed, turning back to the door yet again. "What I mean is, I think the daughter of Selwyn Tarth should… I have no idea what I'm saying, Brienne. Just… be careful."

"Should what?" she retorted, her own voice rising. He could feel Brienne's gaze burning into his back. "I don't spend my nights with Tormund, ser. But I could, if I wanted to." He could hear she was breathing heavily. "The nerve. Honestly, you spent your nights with…" she trailed off.

Jaime winced, but decided to ignore that. "Of course you could, if you wanted to," he said softly. He didn't turn to look at her. "I need to discuss some important information. This is not important." Jaime felt himself loosen slightly, relieved that she was not sharing her chambers with the wildling. "Goodnight, Brienne."

He felt her presence hesitate, and heard the heavy chamber door close behind her. Jaime knocked on Tyrion's chamber door.

Morning came, blue and grey with a chill that froze Jaime's bones. Dim morning light came in through the Great Hall's windows. Jaime, Tyrion, Jon Snow, Daenerys, Jorah Mormont and Davos Seaworth were crowded around the head table.

"The Golden Company?" said Jon. "You just… forgot to tell us about this?"

"Apologies. My mind was somewhat stuck on the army on the dead," said Jaime. Jon Snow smiled bleakly.

"Aye. I can understand that." He looked to Daenerys and Jorah. "You say they're from Essos?"

Jorah nodded. "Mercenary company. The largest sellsword company in Essos, even larger than the Second Sons," he said, looking at Daenerys. "I fought with them before pledging myself to Viserys, Khaleesi."

Daenerys nodded. "I remember you telling me that," she said, smiling at the memory. Jon stiffened slightly at the tender expression on her pretty face. Jaime caught eyes with Tyrion, whose eyes confirmed what he saw. "So. Your sister has ordered that insufferable Greyjoy uncle, who we saw turn tail back to Pyke, to ferry them across the Narrow Sea to take back, what, the four or five kingdoms she lost?" she asked Jaime pointedly.

Jaime nodded. Three kingdoms, at best, he remembered saying. "That is what she told me. That is partly why I left her. She is…" he felt Tyrion's eyes on him, "… she is not well. She wants all seven kingdoms, even if they are frozen over and she is the only one standing. She will not stop. She wants the dead…" Jaime swallowed, "… she wants the dead to destroy her enemies."

Tyrion smiled sadly at Jaime as he realised Jaime had lost all faith in their sister, Jaime's life-long lover. Jaime wished he would stop looking at him like that. I have changed, brother, he thought. I changed long ago.

Varys took a step forwards "My little birds told me there had been a naval battle off the coast of Tyrosh," he said. Jaime noticed his voice was stronger, less wispy than it had been in King's Landing. A farce? "Could it have been Euron Greyjoy's fleet? The Golden Company are currently, if my little birds are correct, in Myr."

Tyrion and Daenerys looked at one another. Jon sighed, putting a hand to his lips as he thought. "It might have been. But there are many fleets, aren't there, Ser Davos?"

Davos Seaworth nodded. "My old friend Salladhor Saan had a fleet almost as big as an Iron Islanders. But I'll admit, the timing and the position would be a remarkable coincidence," he said, his Flea Bottom accent so strong Jaime thought he'd hear him wrong.

Jon, Tyrion and Daenerys shared a glance. "We don't have time to worry about Cersei," said Jon. "Dany leaves tomorrow, and we all march North Easterly in a matter of days. We will send an envoy to Kings Landing, perhaps, to talk with Cersei. Tyrion told us of Bronn's experience with that… weapon which Cersei is in possession of.

Daenerys' face darkened. "And Bronn was the one who shot Drogon?"

"That doesn't matter at the moment, your grace," said Tyrion quickly. Daenerys had a look in her eyes similar to Cersei's, whenever Tommen, Joff or Myrcella had been in danger.

"Perhaps our envoy will be able to somehow obtain this weapon," continued Jon.

Jaime snorted. "She won't listen to anyone besides that cunt Qyburn. You can bury your dead with that idea. And how is this envoy supposed to go to Kings Landing, get the Scorpion without being seen, and leave without Cersei knowing and having them gutted by the Mountain? You might as well let the dead kill you here."

Jon's face was blank. "We will send an envoy."

Tyrion shook his head. "Jaime's right, Jon. She won't listen to anyone, and she has spies everywhere," he echoed his brother. "You don't know her like we do."

"No, I don't. But the decision is final. It's all we can do at this present time." He avoided Daenerys's questioning eyes, something that intrigued Jaime. "We must continue preparing. You are all dismissed."

Jaime was in shock. He pulled Tyrion aside as they left the hall. The cold air was bitingly, painfully cold. "How can they pull that off? Bronn said the Scorpion worked, yes, but we can't just go and take it from Cersei. She'd die before letting us take it."

Tyrion massaged the bridge of his nose, which had reddened in the cold. "I don't know, Jaime. I know a lot, but this, I do not. Maybe they'll send you," he suggested.

"I'd be dead as soon as I walked through the gates."

"I doubt it. She didn't kill us when we were there last."

"I'm not going back," Jaime said, his voice stern. "I'm never going back."

Tyrion walked ahead of Jaime in the direction of the courtyard, where Jaime had eventually begun to make himself useful with the honing of the people's weapons. "Moving on to bigger, better things, I gather?" he chuckled.

Jaime frowned. He didn't mean…? "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, his face burning. "Bigger and better as in, helping save the country from destruction? Then yes, I am," he spat, matching Tyrion's pace.

"Do you think Bronn, Podrick and I, and basically half the country, haven't noticed the way you look at her? The way she looks at you? The Dragonpit, gods! Even Cersei knew. And you don't belong to our sweet sister anymore."

"Tyrion," Jaime warned, "I don't have any… I don't know what you're suggesting…"

"Oh, you just happen to hate Tormund Giantsbane as soon as you walk through the gates of Winterfell because he's a Wilding? You've never been one to discriminate based on differences, brother, look at us," he said. He smiled knowingly. "You ought to tell her before we leave to fight, before Giantsbane gets to her first. Our days are numbered, Jaime. I saw it between Jon Snow and Daenerys, I can see it between…"

"Why don't you tell Daenerys how you feel, then, Tyrion?" Jaime didn't want to talk about this. Tyrion's face fell. "Look at you. You, Mormont, Snow, following her around like ducklings. Our days are numbered," he mimicked.

Tyrion's face was as pale as the snow that fell into their darkening hair. "It's different."

"It's not bloody different." Jaime took a deep breath, catching Tyrion's eyes. "I'm sorry. That was unworthy."

Tyrion shook his head. "It's fine. Honestly." His eyes were sad as he looked at Jaime in wonder. "I just… don't get you. You have the one thing, the one thing I've had twice in my life, right in front of you. It's incredible, really. How oblivious you are. Both of you…" Tyrion's eyes wandered to behind Jaime. Jaime's forehead creased. "Well, well. This will be interesting."

Jaime dreaded turning around, because he knew what he would see. Who he would see. And it wasn't Brienne.

A tall boy, long, pale face and dark hair. He sat, covered in blankets, in a chair with wheels, and he caught Jaime's gaze.


	5. Chapter 5

They sat across from one another by the Heart Tree.

Brandon Stark, Jaime thought. Me pushing you out of that window was what caused the collapse of the Kingdom. Arya had wheeled Bran out here as he had commanded, and had told Jaime to come with him. Jaime felt out of place, here. Unwelcome. He did not belong here, not in the sights of the Northern gods. He could hardly look at the boy; a man, now, truly. But he forced himself to. He let out a shaky breath

"I remember everything now," Bran told him, his voice eerily calm. Jaime felt his stomach writhe.

"I've heard," he replied. His mouth was dry with anxiety.

"Did you think about the consequences?" asked Bran.

The consequences. When had Jaime ever thought about consequences? A man of action, that's what Cersei had called him when he had set Tyrion free, no regard for what comes after. "I did not."

"You asked me how old I was."

"Ten," Jaime said quickly. Bran nodded.

"I was ten years old." Bran's voice had a strange, dreamlike quality. "So young. Carefree. I climbed so well, back then." His eyes were blank, staring directly at the Weirwood, his eyes tracing the vein-like roots that pulsed with red sap. "Every night after my fall, after you pushed me, my mother cursed the gods for what they had done. After I woke up, I cursed whatever had befallen me to the seven hells." Emotion welled in his dark eyes. "I was crippled for life, and for what? A secret."

Jaime's breath was caught in his chest. He couldn't breathe. "I can never take back what I did, Brandon," he choked. "I will never be able to repent for what I did to you. The grief it caused your family, the grief it caused you…"

"The grief," Bran laughed softly. "You took away everything that I wanted to be. I wanted to be a knight."

Jaime closed his eyes tightly, shaking. I can't do this, one part of him cried, but the other part knew he had to. "I haven't spent a day where I don't think about it, when I don't regret it," he said. It was trivial, it was useless.

"Regret," said Bran. "I don't regret it. Not anymore." He paused, looking up at the crimson leaves. "You have no idea what you created when you pushed me through that window, Jaime Lannister." He reached up slowly and took a leaf in his hand. "I am more powerful than I ever was, before I lost my legs." He looked at Jaime, dead in the eyes, Stark brown meeting Lannister green. "I may not walk anymore. But I can fly."

Jaime thought he'd misheard. "I… I don't understand."

"You don't need to." Bran smiled gently. "I hate you for what you did to that boy who climbed. I hate everything it stood for. You will always be the man who crippled. But now," Bran closed his eyes and inhaled the cold air, "I am more than that ten-year-old could ever have been." He crushed the leaf in his hand.

Did the fall make him simple, too? Jaime thought, his heart sinking. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. What else could he say?

"I know," said Bran. He looked at Jaime's stump, covered in a flat, unfilled glove. "You lost your hand."

"Yes. The gods heard your prayers." This boy was brave. Braver than I ever could hope to be, thought Jaime. "I will do whatever it takes, Brandon, to atone for what I have done. I give you my word. Anything."

Bran's face was blank. "I will never thank you for what you did to me Never. But I thank what it made me capable of." He paused. "This, all of this. It doesn't matter anymore. Not when we are all likely going to die within the moon's turn. You will fight with my brother and the northerners against the White Walkers," he stated, a known fact. "That is all that we can want. All that we can hope for."

Jaime nodded. "I will." Jaime looked at the snow falling around them. "I… I swore an oath to your mother. She was… so strong. I swore to protect your sisters." He felt his voice trembling, but he didn't care, not here. "For the oath I swore to her, for the grief I gave you, for the loss I caused… I will protect you, too."

"No one can protect anyone, anymore. No one can protect anyone from their enemies if the enemy is death." Bran's face was emotionless. He wheeled himself closer to the tree. Jaime knew it was time to take his leave. He couldn't expect anything more.

"Thank you, Brandon Stark. And I am sorry." He bowed slightly. "I will always… be sorry."

Jaime began to make his way back to the courtyard to continue helping with the weapons; Arya and Brienne had finally let him start helping with training the older men. As he crunched through the snow, he heard Bran call out his name.

"Jaime," his voice echoed.

Jaime turned around, his entire body coiling in guilt.

Bran wasn't looking at him. "Burn them all."

Jaime's knees buckled. He stared at Bran, not comprehending. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. How could he… Jaime felt bile rise in his throat. He nodded once, turning swiftly, clumsily. His breathing was shallow and fast as he left.

He stumbled out of the Godswood and could hardly see through the swirling mixture of guilt and relief and hatred at himself and confusion and sorrow. Jaime dissociated, and realised that this threat, this army of the dead, they were here. His eyes were blurred and he felt old, so old and so scared. He didn't feel like a knight. He didn't feel like anything. He was going to die soon, and he didn't care. Did he?

He realised that somehow, he had managed to get through the ice and sleet of Winterfell to the guest hall. The sounds of metal clanging and people talking and wind howling all melded into one rush of noise. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You alright?" he heard a familiar voice ask. Bronn.

"No," Jaime replied. "We are all going to die soon." He shook Bronn off, and went into their room.

Night fell.

A tentative knock on the chamber door.

"Go away."

A sigh. "You're missing the feast," Tyrion's voice came from outside.

"If we're going to die anyway, might as well die with a full belly." Bronn's voice joined Tyrion's.

"I said, go away."

He couldn't see them, but he knew that Tyrion and Bronn were sharing an annoyed look. "You want to go hungry and perish instead of dying fighting? Come on, you're not called Kingstarver," Tyrion pushed. "Stop being so glum and instead, come and eat and get drunk off your head and be merry for what could be the last time. Bran Stark didn't seem angry or upset with you."

Jaime groaned. "Don't talk about him right now," said Jaime. Can't they leave me be for once? "I'm not being glum, I'm contemplating," replied Jaime. He wasn't afraid of dying, he never had been.

"You've never contemplated anything a day in your life," Tyrion scoffed. "Why start now? We have a few days to keep organising battle plans and we have been working day and night on weaponry and training. This is our last chance to…"

"I haven't got much time left to contemplate, I'm trying to catch up."

He heard both sigh. "Well. Guess we'll have to go then," said Tyrion. "With your golden hand."

"That Tormund Giantsbane is more of a laugh than you right now, Kingslayer." He heard their footsteps as they turned to leave.

Jaime scowled into the darkness. That fucking Wilding. Jaime rapidly opened the door, where Bronn and Tyrion were heading out the archway, wrapped up in their furs with rosy cheeks.

"Fine," he granted. "Give me my hand back and I'll come with you. Be merry."

The Great Hall was filled with Unsullied, Wildings, shivering Dothraki, knights, men of the Night's Watch, Starks, and more. On the raised dais at the head of the hall sat Daenerys, beautiful and radiant as she laughed at something Davos Seaworth had said to her, Jorah Mormont and Missandei.

Next to Daenerys sat Jon Snow, who looked as glum as Jaime had felt. His dark hair was down in loose curls. Jaime caught eyes with the King in the North, and nodded once. He could tell Snow felt like time was being wasted, but also knew this was what was best for everyone. One night before everything goes to horse shit.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and join my queen," said Tyrion. Bronn looked at Jaime and shrugged.

"Guess I'll go fuck myself, then." He wandered towards a huddle of Unsullied, holding his cock.

Jaime snorted, and looked around. Sansa and a pretty Wilding woman holding a babe were laughing ribaldly like children as Varys onlooked, smiling. Bran and… a fat… Northman? Jaime hazarded a guess, were conversing quietly in the corner.

Jaime felt reasonably confident now that it seemed like he had two hands again under his gloves. The cold touch of the gold on his wrist was a sore reminder of Kings Landing. He had a pang in his heart as he thought of Cersei, wondering if she was safe, if she was healthy.

The tables were lain with food, nothing like Kings Landing's sumptuous delicacies, but hearty stews and dense breads and pheasants. The trestles were packed with people, of all ages and races, their voices loud and a cacophony of languages and accents and songs and laughs and it made Jaime smile, despite everything.

Then his eyes fell on her.

Her blue eyes were bright, her dour face solemn and pale nested in her furs as she listened to the conversation between the Dothraki horselord across from her and Tormund Giantsbane, who sat beside her. Very close beside her. Can't believe Tyrion thought that stupid notion, thought Jaime. Thinks he knows my feelings. What a jape. Jaime snatched a mug of ale that sat on a nearby barrel and downed it in one swallow.

Jaime felt his legs carry him towards that trestle, squirming his way through the mass of warm feast goers. Brienne was seated between Tormund and another Dothraki, and looking minorly uncomfortable.

Jaime tapped Tormund Giantsbane on his vast shoulder. "Mind if I sit here?" He gestured to between Tormund and Brienne, who were quite literally rubbing shoulders. There was no space whatsoever.

"Har!" Tormund boomed, "no room! Apologies, knightling." His face was as ruddy as his hair, and the Wildling's eyes glistened with the sheen of intoxication. He put his huge, rugged hand on Brienne's shoulder. "She's probably already sick of your face, eh, my beauty?"

Brienne locked eyes with Jaime. "There's no room, Ser Jaime."

Jaime shrugged. "Oh well, we'll make room, then, shan't we?" Jaime hoisted a leg over the trestle, captured between Brienne and Tormund, who protested weakly as he shoved his way in. After some wriggling and bumping and "apologies" directed at Tormund, Jaime was a bit too snugly sitting between the pair.

"Last night before Daenerys leaves," Jaime lifted a mug of ale to his lips. His tongue was looser than when he had arrived. "Last night before we leave to begin the attack. Are you scared, Lady Brienne?"

Brienne's eyebrows were knitted together in confusion. "Well, of course."

"I fought them north of the Wall," Tormund butted in, looking past Jaime with irritation. Jaime leaned forwards to try and block his annoying red beard, but Tormund leaned backwards and said it from behind Jaime's back. "I killed a fucking heap of the bastards."

Oh, for fuck's sake, thought Jaime.

"I know, you've told me," said Brienne, her eyes amused. "You, Jon, the brotherhood and Mormont."

"I'm not scared of dying, though," said Jaime. "Not of dying. Just of seeing them. Do you remember at the Dragonpit? When it lashed out at us?" He smirked at Tormund. "Oh wait, you weren't there, were you?"

Tormund laughed. "No, I was at the wall when the Ice Dragon broke it down. Survived by the skin of me teeth. Beric and I thought we were fucked, but we were strong enough to survive…"

Jaime turned to Brienne, ignoring Tormund. "I talked with Bran Stark today."

Brienne's eyes widened. "Was it…?"

"It was difficult. But I think he forgave me," said Jaime softly, his voice almost silent under the sounds of the feast. Brienne still heard him.

"I'm glad," she said, her eyes meeting his. He felt warmth pool in the pit of his stomach as he looked at her, and saw their past- is that a woman, those had been his first words about her. Their first swordfight. Sapphires. Hand. Harrenhal. Bear. Oathkeeper. Fuck loyalty. It all emptied out of his eyes into hers and left him bare and afraid. Her lips moved as if she was about to say something, but she was interrupted.

"My beauty," bellowed Tormund, "may I challenge you to a duel?" He squeezed out from between the Dothraki and Jaime, getting unsteadily to his feet. Gods, he's in his cups, thought Jaime. No one was paying any attention to him besides the Dothraki, Jaime and Brienne.

The four Dothraki all cheered. "Lajat! Lajat!" they cried, Jaime assuming it meant "fight" in their mother tongue.

Brienne huffed. "No, Tormund, not now," she said. "We have been practising for days…"

Tormund went and helped her up from the seat. Jaime stood up, too, jeered on by the Dothraki. He'd better not, he thought. Gods be damned, if he harms her… Jaime's mind wasn't thinking about White Walkers and Ice Dragons anymore. He didn't notice that Wildings and a few Unsullied and Northerners were watching this too, intrigued.

Tormund took Brienne by the arm. "I want to fight for you," he said huskily. "I'll fight for you by fighting you. Will you grant me the pleasure? Our last night…"

Brienne swallowed, her face reddening. "I don't want to be… sore for the trek North from sparring, Tormund…"

Tormund put a hand up to cup her face. "Aye, you'll be sore after you've been with me, but not from sparring. I'll fuck you all night long if it's the last time…"

Jaime's golden hand met Tormund's cheekbone with a sickening crunch, and all the smiles died at the sound. Jon Snow, who had been laughing and holding Daenerys's hand, stood up in shock. Brienne's eyes were wide with horror, as were Tyrion's.

Tormund spat out a gob of blood. "Can't take a fucking joke, can you?" he said, squaring up towards Jaime. "Aye. I'll fight you for her. Last night alive, might as well make the most of it."

"There will be no fighting for anyone," said Jaime, dangerously soft. "The Lady Brienne does not need your ginger minge to make her last normal evening enjoyable," he growled.

"What is happening here?" Jon Snow stormed up to the pair, Tyrion following suit. Snow's dark eyes concerned and angry simultaneously. "You injured my man, Kingslayer."

Jaime scoffed. This must've been a jest. "He was being dishonourable towards Brienne!" he realised his voice was the loudest.

"I was only telling her what she wants to hear," snarled Tormund.

"Enough, both of you," snapped Jon. He looked around at all the onlookers, who were open-mouthed. Daenerys and Sansa were standing side by side in shock. "Keep eating, everyone. This is a trivial matter." He looked between the pair. "I'll have no more spats. Winter is here, and there is no time for it. Brienne has no time for either of you, clearly." He gestured around them.

Brienne had disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

"Brienne!" Jaime could hardly see in the wintry darkness, but he knew she was walking in the direction of the courtyard. "Brienne," he called, softer this time.

"Don't, Ser. Leave me be." Her voice teemed with humiliation, and it made Jaime's stomach twist in shame. He stumbled ungracefully after her. Stupid, stupid, he chastised himself. He was hot on her heels, trailing behind her like the lion cub he was.

"I didn't like what he was saying to you, he sounded as if he meant to…"

"Meant to fuck me, Ser?" Brienne turned suddenly, and Jaime almost crashed into her furs. In the moonlight, her hair shone like silver. "Is that what you think he meant?"

"Well…" Jaime rubbed a hand over his greying gold stubborn with his greying gold hand, speckled with Tormund's blood. "I didn't think he was treating you... properly, or with..."

Brienne breathed a hard laugh. "You think I am worried about being treated properly when we could die within a fortnight? Do you think I care? If anything, it's complimentary," she spat scornfully. "However, I am not worried about Wildlings and their forms of flattery, Ser Jaime, and whether they would harm me; they don't. I am worried about the Stark girls and… others surviving, and surviving myself. Not being humiliated by two fighting men at a feast. Leave Tormund be."

Jaime's breath, a steam of white fog, swirled around them, mingling with Brienne's. We're both alive, he thought, living, breathing. "I didn't think anything," he said instead. "I never do. I act, then think. You know that!" He paused. "Complimentary? A Wildling wanting to fuck you until you're sore is a way of courting you?" he scoffed. "To him, perhaps, but to you?"

Brienne turned back around in anger, shivering, and marched ahead through the now calf-deep sleet and snow. "I'm sorry, that was unworthy. But come on! Brienne of Tarth could do better than that," he tried to jest, light-heartedly, but he knew it would not grant forgiveness.

"There are no better," she said. A pang went through Jaime's chest. They'd trooped their way to the Great Keep, where Brienne's chambers were. She shook the ice off her boots. "Do you remember what I told you, Ser Jaime," she was breathing heavily from the exertion, and her cheeks were flushed pink, "when I was first charged with bringing you to Kings Landing?" she threw her boots into the corner, and barged up the stairs, not looking behind her.

Jaime remembered every minute of that godforsaken trek. "You barely said anything that wasn't rebating my insults, but I certainly made up most of the conversation on that journey. Are you referring to when I asked whether you fucked horses?" he followed her up the stairs. "If anyone had ever tried to…" he didn't want to finish that sentence.

"All my life, men like you have been sneering at me," she continued. They'd reached the chambers. Brienne turned and looked down at him, unsmiling, as he stood a few steps below her. "And right now, Ser, just once before I die next week or the next, I wouldn't mind a man who doesn't sneer at me." Her eyes were moist. "Just once."

Jaime jolted in surprise. He felt his stomach flutter unfamiliarly. I don't sneer, not anymore, he wanted to yell, I sneered once and never since, and never again will I. "I am sorry, Brienne. I didn't know," he said, and he felt his gaze flare, burning into hers. "You are not going to die," He said, as he took a few tentative steps upwards, reaching her level.

Brienne backed away towards her chamber and entered. Jaime was hurt that she didn't trust him.

He approached her chamber door, now open, with caution. She had entered and was facing the candle by the window, her back facing him.

"You believe that Tormund Giantsbane could give you everything you ever wanted?" he asked gently. "To not be sneered at? To tell you how magnificent you are? Because if so, I will not intervene. If you are welcoming his advances, then there is no reason for me to ever say that you cannot." Brazenly, he entered her chambers and walked around her so he could look at her, truly look at her, and get an answer.

Brienne's pupils dilated when she saw him. "I... Jaime, I'm not…" she said, her head drooping.

"You're not sure?" Brienne tried to avoid his unrelenting gaze, and stared past him at the candle by her chamber window, which emanated a warm, incandescent glow. "Say the word, and you will have Tormund Giantsbane and I will never try to stop him from saying unseemly things to you." He felt the words catch slightly in his throat.

Brienne's eyes locked with his. "I don't need your protection. That is all I was saying."

"I know you don't," he replied. "But do you? Want him, I mean?"" the muscles in his face tightened.

Jaime's heart ached when he saw those blue eyes well with the ghosts of tears. "He's the only man, besides Renly, who hasn't ever thought that I… I was some great, lumbering, ugly beast," she said, her voice shaking. "He says I'm beautiful, like Daenerys or like Sansa."

Oh, sweet Brienne, Jaime thought. You are not beautiful like them. You are beautiful like Brienne. "You truly believe that only they have thought otherwise?"

She stared at him, cow-eyed. "I know it." The breeze from downstairs ruffled the furs around her neck.

Jaime shook his head. "You don't," he said, "you truly don't." His words trembled in the space between them, shivered, and fell. "You didn't answer the question."

She bowed her head slightly, fiddling with the tassel on the edge of the four-poster bed that was between them. "I truly don't know. If I want him or not." Her voice was deep, deeper than it had been.

"Well. Does he make you smile?" Jaime asked, his voice so quiet he hoped she could hear him. "Do you know how he thinks? What his intentions are?"

"Well, like all men, I suppose."

He laughed. "I'm not going to disagree with you there. Do you find him… comely? Handsome?"

"Wanting someone isn't all about that," said Brienne. "But yes." Jaime blinked quickly.

"No. No, it isn't." He sighed heavily. "Cersei was beautiful, and I was blinded by my devotion to her. The only woman I'd ever been with."

"As was Renly. As was I." Brienne looked at him. "Do you… miss her?"

Jaime didn't want to go there, but her eyes implored and he realised that he could talk about it, he could talk about it to her and her alone because she knew him like no one else. "I do." He shuddered as he felt the cool air on his neck. "She's pregnant."

Brienne paled. After a moment of silence, she spoke. "And you still left her?"

Jaime snorted. "Gods, what have I made you become? No, Ser Jaime! You should stay with your sister whom you've impregnated! In clandestine! That's honourable!" he mocked, leaning nonchalantly against the wooden dressed by the window.

Brienne smiled a secret smile. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't question your decisions."

"Don't be. I shouldn't question yours." They stood in silence across from one another. "Brienne, I…" gods, he had no idea what to say. Her eyes were so wide and they drank him in and swallowed him whole. "I'm sorry I embarrassed you. You're right, it's not what I should be concerned about now."

She shook her head. "I just didn't expect it. I didn't think you, Jaime Lannister, would care who took interest in me."

Jaime felt his cheeks burn, like he was some squire with peach fuzz being berated. He felt that familiar heat pool in his stomach and he tried to stamp it out. If this were any other situation, any other place or time or context, he would've shot back an 'I don't care." But he didn't, not this time. "I just wanted you to be safe. If you truly think you want Tormund, by all means," he said, ignoring the gnawing ache somewhere in his chest.

"No one is safe, now," Brienne said sadly. "We may all be dead come next week, if the fight doesn't..."

Jaime had had enough. He strode angrily towards her and grabbed her by the arm, as she had to him in the Dragonpit. "Enough of that!" he growled, "if you say that, you are dead already, before the fight has even begun. I will not have you say you'll die before I do, Brienne, gods, I will not hear it!"

Brienne stood in shock, looking at his hand on her upper arm. Her bottom lip trembled. "And you think I would watch you die with ease?" she said, her eyes reddening. "Do you think I would let you… let you go without fighting?"

Jaime lessened the space between them. "I know you wouldn't," he said, "But I don't want you to say these things. Not to me, not now." His green eyes searched her blue, searching, searching. "If you're saying it to make things easier for me if you do something stupid like sacrificing yourself for the girls…"

"We don't know what either of us could do, Ser," Brienne butted in, her internal fortress going back up.

"Enough with the Sers, Brienne. You are not dying soon, you hear me?" he said sternly. He was very close to her now, the heat of her radiating off her person, raising goosepimples on Jaime's arm. "I will not lose possibly the only thing in this world that makes it worth fighting White Walkers and Ice Dragons for." The words came tumbling out and he realised he couldn't take that back, and he didn't want to. He didn't care anymore.

Brienne's mouth opened with a small pop, then closed again. "Are you… mocking me?"

"No, I'm not fucking mocking you, Brienne…"

A cough echoed through the door and Sansa stood there, eyes questioning. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, "but this is my chamber too, and I've had enough of the feast. If you would, Ser Jaime." She curtsied.

Jaime clenched his fist. Should've closed the fucking door. "Of course, my lady," he said, his voice tight, his eyes burning into Brienne's. Sansa entered, and Jaime hardly saw her. He exited the chambers, and looked over his shoulder.

Don't leave me, her eyes said. Never, his replied.


	7. Chapter 7

The day of reckoning came; the inhabitants of Winterfell, Dothraki, Wildlings, Northerners, Unsullied, Starks and a scarce smattering of Southerners were to begin the trek North-East; Bran and Sansa were to stay in Winterfell with Samwell Tarly and Gilly, Tyrion was to travel with Daenerys and Jon Snow, and Jaime… Jaime knew he was meant to be fighting at the front line. And that he would.

The Winterfell courtyard was chaotic. Leather bags were being stuffed with supplies by every man, woman and child who had been taught to fight by Brienne, Arya and Podrick, and recently Jaime; dried mutton and hard breads were forced inside sacs beside sleeping mats, lined with sheep or goats wool. The bronzed Dothraki sharpened their Arakhs, finally at some ease with the bitter cold in their winter clothes, while the Wildings conversed loudly with Tormund, easy to spot with his booming laugh and fiery beard.

Jaime sauntered through the yard, his leather sac stuffed to the brim with his sleeping mat and tent, Widow's Wail (gods, he needed a new name for it) tucked safely into its scabbard. The cacophony of voices and weapons and whimpering children and arguments over food rations was not enough to drown out Jaime's thoughts of his conversation the night before with Brienne. The way her eyes had sparkled with tears, her accusatory tone when he had, somehow, said that she was worth fighting for. Which was undeniably true, but he could not say that to her, not now! Idiot, he thought, what was he thinking? This situation was too complex, and it always had been. It always would be.

He knew that she was with Sansa and Arya Stark presently, as he had seen her earlier that morn in the Great Hall; she had avoided his gaze and had excused herself from breaking her fast. Jaime forced himself not to be hurt by it; she would not, could not, be a distraction from the Great War. Life is what they were fighting for, not…

"Well, this is it," he heard a voice come from below his shoulder, where Tyrion's eyes were scanning the busy courtyard. Jaime sighed heavily.

"This is it, indeed," he replied. "Are you afraid?"

Tyrion snorted, his beard twinkling with flecks of ice. "I'm a dwarf who cannot fight, whose only weapon is my utmost wit and social skills, whose closest friends are a sellsword and squire. Of course not."

Jaime smirked down at his brother. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"You're not going to die. I won't let that happen, and you can fight. I swear I taught you something in our youth."

"Well, I've made it this far," said Tyrion, smiling softly. "I assume you will be on the front lines with Jon Snow and the other seasoned warriors?" he clicked his tongue. "Even with one hand, you can do what most men can't."

"I'd assume so, but I do not know yet. Snow said he will speak with the soldiers in the Great Hall soon." Jaime toyed with the pommel of Widows Wail. "You will be fighting, yes?"

"Yes, but not in the front line. I will be quite far behind you." He paused. "Are…" Tyrion began, but stopped. Jaime looked at his brother quizzically. "No, no matter." Jaime raised his eyebrows, and Tyrion rolled his eyes as he was nonverbally forced to continue.

"Are you… concerned? For her?" The courage in Tyrion's voice dwindled. Jaime's mouth went dry. Did he mean..? "Cersei." Tyrion finished.

Oh. That name was a dagger in Jaime's gut. "I don't want to talk about her, Tyrion," he spat harshly.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I just… want you to know that you made the right decision. Despite it all. And I know it was difficult for you," said Tyrion. Jaime shook his head, his jaw clenching. He knew Tyrion was right, but if it were the right decision, if it were honourable, why did it have to cause such pain?

"If its any consolation, I do know how you feel. I was betrayed by the one I loved once. You were there." Tyrion's eyes were slightly glazed, but his voice was steady. The clang and clatter of packing men, women and children caused them both to snap back into the present moment.

"Can't linger on the past anymore, brother," said Jaime, turning to Tyrion. His brother's inquisitive, bearded face turned upwards. "Tyrion… stay alive. I'll be ahead of you, and you can come and find me if need be. But if you die… I'm not burning your body." Jaime tried not to let his voice quiver as Tyrion gave a sad smile.

"There's not much to burn," he replied simply.

Jaime paused, then knelt and enveloped his brother in a warm hug. Tyrion's breath was ragged, and snowflakes melted in his hair. "If this is goodbye…" said Tyrion, "know that I…"

"I know," said Jaime. "Me too." He would not cry. They pulled away from one another, smiling.

"Will you…" Tyrion looked at the sky, "will you watch out for Daenerys? She will be out front." He frowned.

"I will," Jaime promised. Gods, there was something he'd never thought he'd say or do. Protect the Targaryen girl. "If you need me, please, come and find me, no matter how far you are fighting or camping behind me."

Before he could say another word, Jon Snow's northern-accented voice rung out around the courtyard from the Keep's wooden gallery. "All experienced warriors are to meet in the Great Hall immediately!" he commanded, and Jaime could see no one but Ned Stark himself looking down from his honourable height. And what an honourable man he was, Jaime thought, fathering a bastard when he had two children already and had planted a third in his wife's belly.

Jaime looked at Tyrion. His brother nodded. Jaime took in his face, all of it, then strode over to the Great Hall.

When Jaime entered, all air of life and joy from the feast the previous night had evaporated. Instead, it was cold and quiet, save for the murmurings of Jon Snow and… ah, wonderful, Jaime thought, as he spied Tormund Giantsbane beside the King in the North. Around the table stood the Unsullied leader (Greyworn? Gayborne? Qyburn?) on behalf of the entire army, Jorah Mormont, Daenerys, Arya Stark and Davos Seaworth (questionable), a young man with a shock of black hair he had never seen before but looked startlingly familiar, various Dothraki, Northerners and Wildlings, Bronn… and Brienne. Her eyes still avoided his own, so he kept analysing who he would be fighting alongside. His gaze stopped dead when it rested on a familiar, hideous and burnt face.

What in seven hells is he doing here? Thought Jaime. He'd seen Clegane at the Dragonpit, but he had not expected him to be here of all places,. He must've arrived during the night.

What was even more shocking was the weathered man next to him who sported an eyepatch. Jaime approached the table to get a better view, and he was sure his eyes were deceiving him. Dondarrion had been killed years ago… hadn't he? He arrived beside Bronn, uneasy. Bronn acknowledged his presence with a nod. "Can't wait to see you fuck up some dead men with the training I gave you," he murmured. Jaime nodded, but couldn't stop looking at the Hound and Dondarrion.

"Lannister," said Jon Snow in a gruff tone; yet, it did not hold as much disdain as it had the previous days, so Jaime considered that a small victory. Jon looked around the table, taking them in, weighing them up as warriors. Jaime knew he was where he was meant to be. He looked at Tormund, whose lip was swollen and split. The Wildling scowled through his matted beard.

"Apologies for last night, Giantsbane. The drink must've taken over," quipped Jaime.

Brienne flushed deeply, looking away, and Tormund guffawed. "Til the next fight," he responded keenly. Jaime straightened, concealing a smirk.

"Enough, both of you," snapped Jon Snow. "Alright. We are marching North-Easterly towards the Breech of the Wall today. We no longer have times for festivities; the dead are here, and we are the people who are going to fight against the coming storm. The front line," Jon pointed to a rough diagram he had sketched of the battle plan, "will consist of the Dothraki who will have new arakhs of Dragonglass that have been forged, the Unsullied, Ser Jorah, Clegane, Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, Bronn, Tormund and his fighters, and Ser Beric. Daenerys and myself will also be taking the dr…"

"What about me?" said the dark-haired boy and Arya Stark in unison. While their tones were livid, Jaime could not help but smile at their stubborn similarity. Gods, that swarthy youth's face was familiar, though.

Jon Snow sighed and looked at the pair. "Arya, I know you're as good a fighter as any of us-"

"I have to be at the front line with you," she interjected, her grey eyes huge, her jaw set. "I've been training for years…"

"As have I!" blurted the young man, his voice thick with a flea-bottom accent. "Seven hells, we're as experienced as Ser Davos, for fucks sake!" he said. Jaime's eyes flicked to Brienne, who had a small, warm smile on her face. When she saw Jaime looking at her, that smile faded.

"Arya, Gendry," said Jon Snow calmly, "I know you are both strong warriors, and that you have had as much experience as we have. That is why I need you here, guarding Winterfell. Sansa, Bran and Podrick will also remain." Jaime noticed Brienne's neck tighten at the mention of Podrick.

"No. No, I want to go with you, Jon!" Arya's voice, usually quite enigmatic and dark, was verging on a desperate note. Her young face did not look like it belonged to the face of a warrior. The boy- Gendry- crossed his muscular arms, shaking his head. Various Northerners who had not been named on the frontline seemed elated to not have been called to fight on the front lines.

Jon shuffled past Gendry to talk to Arya. "You need to do this for me, little sister. Please. I have important things that need to be done, that only you can do."

"No, Jon!" she was furious now, and it was unnerving to watch- Jaime looked at the floor. "I won't leave you again, not when we've only just found each other again, I can't…" Snow put his hand on the nape of Arya's neck, and began whispering inaudibly in her ear. She calmed at his touch, a wolf in every sense. She's as wild as that animal of hers, a dim voice echoed in his head. Arya's eyes widened, and as he pulled away, she nodded.

Her eyes were moist. "I can't lose you again," said Arya.

"You won't," said Jon Snow. "I will return to Winterfell. I promise. But you must stay here, and protect the Starks of Winterfell."

"I'll stay with the fucking children," interrupted a rasping voice, shattering the quietness of the Hall and the tender moment between the Starks. Thank the gods. Jon Snow turned from Arya, and looked over to the Hound.

"Har! No, dog, we need you on the front lines," said Tormund. He looked towards Jaime. "More than we need some others, anyway," he grinned, eying Jaime's golden hand.

"Tormund," warned Jon. Jaime's eyes glinted in response to Tormund. He noticed in the corner of his eye that Brienne was looking more than slightly uncomfortable. Don't flatter yourself, Wench, Jaime thought, this isn't about you anymore.

So he told himself.

"No you fucking don't need me," said the Hound, "remember the last time you took me that far North?"

Tormund laughed, and Beric and Jorah muttered. An eyebrow raise from Daenerys said that it wasn't anything good that had happened. "If it is what you want, Hound, then you shall stay." Snow turned to Gendry. "You must stay here to protect those who cannot fight. You will not be alone. You will have many Wildlings, Samwell Tarly, and Northmen and the younger Dothraki here with you. You will be in charge of dispersing every man, woman and child who has been recently taught to fight in holdfasts around the north- and you will be in charge of protecting Winterfell with Sansa and Arya."

Gendry dithered, then looked to Ser Davos, who nodded, then to Arya, who held his gaze. Gendry grimaced as he hesitated, his internal battle evident on his face, but he finally nodded.

Jon bobbed his head, successful. He turned to the rest of the large group. "I know full well that you are frightened," he said, "and you have every right to be. We leave today. We all have our packs and tents prepared, and weapons sharpened. We will be riding and trekking some distance today, and once we reach our encampment for the night, we will go over battle plans for our first battle.

We must be vigilant and have either Dragonglass or Valyrian steel on your person at all times, as the Wights and their creators can appear at any moment- you will feel a cold mist, and then you will know. Fetch your packs, your horses and prepare for the long day ahead. We will stop at nightfall; you must also stay warm. We will be bringing wood for fires, but it will not be easy." He took a deep breath, looking between Arya and Daenerys, then around at the many faces of the fighters. "Take time to say goodbye to your loved ones," he said solemnly, "because chances are, we may not return. Most likely, we will not." He did not look at Arya.

Jaime's stomach twisted, but he did not look towards her. He would not. He did not want to see those stupid blue eyes and that dour face, nor did he want to remember that embarrassment of what he had divulged the previous night. It was difficult enough as it was, with Tyrion; someone else to worry about would be too distracting.

And yet.

Arya stifled a sharp inhale, a half-dead sob. Jaime noticed Gendry, beside her, had dropped his hand down by his side. Jaime was surprised when he saw the smith's hand was entwined with Arya's as he whispered into her dark hair. They looked like they belonged with one another. That boy was so familiar. Jaime looked to Daenerys and the Unsullied leader, whose eyes were sad. Daenerys whispered something to him.

The hall emptied as the fighters left to prepare and say goodbye to their families and friends. Jaime would not see Tyrion again; their farewell had been too much for both of them. Brienne swept past Jaime, her head down. Tormund followed her eagerly, and Jaime had to restrain himself as to not to grab the ginger Wildling by the arm and hold him back. Jon Snow's sullen face was sombre as he left, presumably, to say his goodbyes to Arya, Sansa and Bran. Davos Seaworth left with the Unsullied leader, Jorah Mormont and Daenerys, and Beric and Clegane followed suit.

Jaime left the hall, and Bronn fell into step beside him. "It's happening," Bronn said. "It's fucking happening." They reached the horses on which they had ridden up to Winterfell, whickering in the stables.

"It is," said Jaime, slinging his pack over the hide of the horse.

"Well," said Bronn, "Don't leave it too late, Lannister." He leant over to slap Jaime on the shoulder.

"Leave what too late?" Jaime asked as Bronn mounted his horse. Bronn shook his head, not looking back as he dug his knees into the horse's sides.

"Un-fucking-believable," Bronn muttered, trotting off.

The ride was cold and miserable and cold and dreadful and cold. Jaime could still not believe that dragons were flying above them, the Targaryen girl atop the large black one. The troops were a horde of mismatched warriors, armies and swordsmen and wildings and two dragons and a direwolf. The white wolf, Ghost, walked beside Ser Davos' horse. Jon Snow was meant to be at the front of the throng, but Jaime could not see him, even when the shivering Dothraki in front of him was moved to the side by the rock of his horse; Tyrion was at the back with Bronn, so he knew he'd be as safe as one could be in these circumstances. Jaime shivered violently, the air so bitterly cold it brought tears to his eyes.

Jon Snow had left his siblings with wet eyes, but the sternness in his stubborn jaw contradicted his sentiments. Sansa Stark was graceful even when crying as she watched Jon Snow leave, Arya and Bran beside her. Daenerys had wept silently when she had left her translator behind in Winterfell, and he knew it would've been just as difficult for Brienne to leave Pod. He had seen them bid their farewell at the gates of Winterfell, and the pain in Brienne's eyes made it plain that she cared very much for her squire.

She was riding around ten metres ahead of his horse, beside the Unsullied leader (Grey Worm, Jaime had found out from Jorah Mormont,) and the back of her blonde head was almost invisible in the snowfall. He speculated if it were himself she was saying farewell to, if it would be any different.

Would she weep for me, he wondered, if I were to die? Would she embrace me as she had embraced Podrick? They had never embraced after all their farewells. Each farewell with her had been difficult, and yet they had never touched, save for when he fainted in the bathtub at Harrenhal. Never a fond pat on the shoulder, never a kiss on the hand. Just looks and words and eyes.

Night had fallen over the troops, so cold that Jaime couldn't open his locked jaw, and the troops had to stop to light torches. The trek felt endless- Jaime could feel his golden hand welding to his skin with sticky frost, numbing any itching. Nowhere near as bad as Locke and his bloody Mummers, he kept reminding himself, not as bad as Robb Stark's cage, not as bad as having your own rotten hand strung about your neck. This trek was unlike anything Jaime had experienced- usually, the chattering and jeering of fighters would echo around him, but this group was completely silent. It was unnerving, to have only the howling wind and crunching of ice echoing in his ears.

Some hours later, Jaime felt blisters forming on his chafed thighs. He tried to lift his behind out of the saddle, but felt his leather breeches flood with blister fluid, which froze almost instantly. Charming, he thought, nibbling on a piece of dried mutton, which was also frozen. How the Nights Watch lived in these conditions was beyond him; but he knew he had it easier than the poor Dothraki. Two had already passed out, toppling from their horses.

"HALT!" boomed Tormund's voice from the front of the pack. Finally, Jaime breathed a sigh of relief. They had reached their first encampment site, an ice flat surrounded by rocks and sleet, somewhere south of Castle Black, with no encounters with the dead; Jaime knew that the moment he was to see one, a real soldier of the White Walkers, that he would have to forget any preconceived notions of single combat. He would need to return to his primal roots and fight without any tact whatsoever. The thought was exhilarating. The thought was terrifying.

They all dismounted and began to set up camp in the dark. It was surreal. Torches were going out each second from the roaring wind, unlike any wind he'd ever experienced, and there were hundreds of men and women attempting to raise their tents with sleet in their eyes and ears and mouths. It was mayhem. The yelling of the other fighters had erupted, a stark contrast to the silence of the ride North-East.

Jaime fumbled blindly with his tent's structure and canvas, his teeth chattering so loudly he couldn't hear the men around him who were now yelling orders. The moonlight was the only thing allowing the any vision, and he could vaguely see the outline of… Ser Davos and Jorah? shivering nearby. Jaime's hand was as frozen solid and as useless as his golden one. He couldn't even build a tent. Why have I come here again? He asked himself, is it all for nought if I can't build a fucking tent?

"Fuck! Fuck this!" Jaime yelled into the wind and snow. He was frustrated with himself, this weather, the dark, everything; his nose was running and was frozen solid. He tried to pull off his golden hand, but it wouldn't budge. He felt the beginnings of frostbite on the stump of his wrist where it joined.

It was then that he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned. He could hardly make out her face, but he recognised the weight of her hand and the furs around her neck in the dim torchlight. She silently began to help erect the tent, and Jaime was filled with a rush of emotion he did not quite recognise. He was grateful. How she had found him in the darkness, he did not know. All that had passed between them the previous night was forgotten about momentarily- they were just trying to build this tent and survive.

The wind whipped their faces with ice and snow, but the tent slowly rose, their hands numb and their faces crusted with frost. They were puffing heavily from the exertion. Something Jaime had done a million times before was suddenly rendered near-impossible in these conditions.

"Brienne," he puffed, "thank you."

Jaime's eyes had accustomed to the dim light, and he could see her nod. Suddenly, the yelling of others around them grew louder.

"DOWN!" he heard repeatedly in a thick Essosi accent, "DOWN DOWN DOWN!"

Jaime looked at Brienne, and she nodded. They both leapt onto the cold ground, pressing against one another, expecting an avalanche or worse; but to Jaime's surprise, an enormous wave of warm air enveloped them, the camp brightening with heat and light.

Jaime looked to Brienne, and seeing her face in the light reassured him like nothing else. In this light, she could be a true beauty. "Alright?" he breathed, his hand stretching unbidden to touch her shoulder.

Brienne frowned at him. "Of course I am."

"I was just asking." Jaime looked up from their position on the ice beside the tent they'd built. He gaped at the enormous fire that flickered in the centre of the camp, so tall and fierce that it seemed almost alive. Jaime was in awe- he could see all the other tents surrounding his own, and all the Unsullied and Wildlings and Northerners and every soldier that'd come. Jaime and Brienne helped one another to their feet, and when he caught her eyes for a second that seemed a bit too long, suddenly everything he'd said came rushing back and making him feel awful about Tormund and everything he'd ever done again.

His thoughts and gaze were interrupted by the roar of the wind; no, not the wind... the sound of flapping of giant wings overrode the winds howls, and the whole camp cried in shock and amazement as a giant shadowy beast, THE giant shadowy beast, came to a graceful landing beside the giant fire. Seconds later, another shadow, slightly smaller but just as incredible, landed beside it's sibling.

"Seems they do have their uses, these creatures," shouted Jaime. Ser Jorah gave a chuckle over the wind from his tent threshold, around ten metres away.

"She's here," he heard Jorah say, as the silver-haired Targaryen girl slid down the side of the black dragon, wrapped snugly in her own winter coat. As she walked to where her cloaked Unsullied had built a tent, she tenderly touched the green dragon.

"She is," Ser Davos agreed, "and so is he." The Onion Knight's voice was akin to a proud father. It gave Jaime a stab in the gut, because he had wanted to look at his son that way, once.

Jaime shrouded that thought for later and looked to Brienne, who raised an eyebrow, and Jaime's stomach leapt as he looked back to see another rider dismount the second dragon. Jon Snow.

The King in the North looked as windswept as any of them. He joined Daenerys in front of Grey Worm and… Tormund, and shared words, most likely about what they had seen.

"He can ride dragons too?" Jaime spat. Brienne sniffed.

"You did not know?"

"Should I have? Why does a Stark get a dragon as well as a wolf? Hardly seems fair. I never got a pet lion." He smiled darkly. "I was a pet lion."

Brienne smiled sadly. Then her face hardened. "We… we should get some rest." She looked back towards her own tent, impeccably built about fifty metres from Jaime's. "Goodnight, Ser Jaime," she said, her words disappearing into the gusts of northerly winds.

What? Jaime about choked on his frozen saliva. "Brienne, wait," he yelled, then hesitated. She turned back to him, and her eyes were wide.

Jaime's tongue was leaden. "Thank you. I am truly grateful for your help tonight."

Brienne smiled tightly. "It was the only thing to do."

"Could you help me light my torches? For my tent, I mean." He felt pathetic for asking. "please."

She paused, then nodded once.

The torches inside Jaime's tent reminded him of his candles in his chamber at Casterly Rock when he was a child. The red flames reminded him of Aerys Targaryen, and it reminded him of Sansa Stark, and they reminded him of Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella and Cersei.

"Thank you for everything, Brienne," he said, not looking at her. "Brienne…" He felt his tongue grow leaden. He stared into the flame he'd just lit. "Brienne. Last night…"

"It does not matter, Ser." Brienne's voice was harsh, but when he turned to look at her from across the shelter he saw her eyes were wide and vulnerable.

"It… does not matter?" he blustered. Oh, gods, he thought, what can you say to make this better? he asked himself. He had just said words without thinking last night. He would at least try to think tonight. "You thought I was japing."

Brienne would not look at him. "I do not believe you said what you said with a clear head. You had had some ale, and…"

Jaime took a few steps towards her. "I was not mocking you, Brienne. I swear it."

Her eyes, sapphire blue, were shimmering with an inscrutable emotion Jaime could not discern. She looked at her hands. "You hit Tormund," she said. "I have seen similar farces. Men pretending to fight for my… well, I don't know," she laughed hardly, "I honestly don't know."

"No," Jaime shook his head, a shiver going through him, "no. I hit him because what he was saying seemed… gods, Brienne, didn't it make you uncomfortable?"

"To be frank, ser, men have always made me uncomfortable. With exceptions." She thumbed Oathkeeper in her hilt, and Jaime wondered if she did it subconsciously. She looked at him tentatively. "You said… you said I was the only thing in this world worth fighting for." Her voice was unsteady.

Shit, Jaime thought. "Did I?" Jaime frowned ruefully, then swore internally as her face fell. Shit, shit. "Alright! Alright. Yes, I did, Brienne." He a few more careful steps towards her, until they were only an arm's length, if that, apart.

She inhaled, as if she was frightened. "Why?" she whispered. She was all but pleading, searching for an answer. They were so close that Jaime could feel her warm breath on his face. "Why, Jaime?"

"Because I bloody meant it, Brienne!" His hand shot out, unbidden, to grasp the top of her shoulder tightly. She began to recoil, but left his hand there, as it was wringing into her furred sleeve. He looked up to her, his eyes desperate. "I meant it." Jaime did not know what to say. He did not know how to feel.

Brienne's bottom lip trembled, and her eyes darted to his lips; Jaime felt another shiver, but this time he did not know if it was the cold. "I… believe I care for you, ser Jaime," she said softly, almost embarrassed.

Jaime's grip on her arm softened, and he smiled. Sweet Brienne, he thought, you are too good for this godforsaken world. "And I you, Lady Brienne." Their whispered breaths coiled together, the fog evaporating as it met in the space between them.

"I did not ever imagine telling you that," she breathed a laugh, which Jaime echoed.

"Stubborn wench. Never did want to admit that, either."

Silence fell, except for the yelling and swearing of men outside and the wind, the cruel wind. Jaime's eyes were piercing hers and he could not help but pull her into a warm embrace, sudden and fierce. Before he knew what he was doing, he had bunched his hand into her hair, and pressed his face into her warm, muscled shoulder.

Brienne froze, unsure of how to react momentarily, but instinct took over. She melted into the hug, and that warmth she did not recognise pooled in her stomach, as she clung to Jaime. "Don't die," she whispered.

"If you don't. You'd make a bloody awful white walk…"

Then a voice interrupted. "Jaime, is this your tent? We… oh!"

Brienne and Jaime sprung apart from their embrace, flushed but with full hearts. Tyrion was half-in and half-out the tents, trying to conceal a smile. "Shall I come back later…?"

Jaime snorted. "It's not like that, brother," he said, and regretted it as soon as he said it, for he did not know himself what it was like. He looked to Brienne, whose face had returned to its stern neutral expression. "What is it, Tyrion?" Jaime was frustrated, but he knew he should not have been.

Tyrion looked between the two, but left it. "We have need of you."


	8. Chapter 8

Jon Snow's tent was no warmer than Jaime's own.

Davos had lead them over through the sleet, and were greeted by Jon Snow, Daenerys, Grey Worm, Beric Dondarrion, Ser Jorah and Tormund, who were huddled around a brazier inside the tent. Jaime avoided the Wildling's glinting eyes. We have problems that are greater, he told himself. Much greater.

Not greater than the weight of Brienne's head on his shoulder, a part of his mind whispered.

"Lady Brienne. Lannister," Jon Snow nodded gruffly, turning from the flames. Jaime did not expect any sers. "We hope the trek was not too harsh on you," he said, looking to Brienne. That didn't surprise Jaime either.

Jaime shrugged. "It was harder on my arse, to be sure," he smirked. Davos and Tormund snorted, but no others laughed. "I will grow accustomed, Snow."

Jon Snow nodded, then looked to Brienne. "And you, my lady?"

"I have endured worse, your grace," Brienne replied solemnly. Jaime noticed Daenerys give the knight a soft smile.

"You are a talented fighter, from what I've heard from Jon," said the dragon queen. Jon, Jaime thought. Not his grace, not the king in the north. Much more… informal. He had noticed how they moved around one another, like they were stars in some strange orbit. Jaime supposed he could not particularly blame the two youths. Strong, beautiful usurpers, they almost seemed to match. Almost. Jaime could see that Daenerys clearly wanted to be a ruler- mayhaps like her father, mayhaps not. Jon Snow seemed to carry the weight of his title as a burden.

The smell of smoke and ash was particularly strong in this tent, and Jaime realised that both Jon and Daenerys had smears of ash and dust on their necks and faces. The trials of dragons, Jaime supposed.

"You must teach me to fight in one on one combat," continued Daenerys, interrupting Jaime's analysis. Brienne smiled at that. Jaime crossed his arms. He just wanted to go to his tent and try to stay warm. Jon Snow sensed his frustration and coughed.

"We have called you here to inform you of tomorrow's plans," he said. "Tomorrow, you will all wake, break your fasts quickly, and we will continue north easterly towards Eastwatch by the sea." He paused, avoiding Jaime's eyes. But…? Jaime thought. "However," Jon continued, "Tyrion and Bronn, who are camped some leagues from here, will be leading a separate vanguard directly north, to Castle Black. We sent Dothraki envoys to inform them, and they have agreed to do so."

Jaime's heart sunk. "Then I will go with him," he said rapidly. He felt Brienne move closer to his side, and felt her hand grab his heavy woollen sleeve. He looked at her, and those stupidly wide blue eyes made it look as if she had not meant to grab his arm. The thought of how warm and solid she had felt in his arms only minutes before floated through his mind. She shook her head, beseeching him. He shook her off, and she lowered her arm, hurt. Don't do this now, wench, he thought.

"You can't, Lannister," said Jon Snow, looking somewhat uncomfortably between Jaime and Brienne, "I know it is hard, believe me, I know, but we need our best fighters where the brunt of the attack is, and that is at Eastwatch." He made eye contact with Jaime. "He will have Bronn and many others with him."

"Believe in him," said Daenerys, somewhat begrudgingly but with a warm undertone for Tyrion's sake. "He could probably talk the dead out of killing him."

Everyone gave a chuckle at that, despite the situation. Jaime clenched his fist, taking a breath. Be safe, little brother, he willed, I know you can protect yourself, but fuck, don't die. When Jaime looked at Daenerys, he could see she was also concerned, a crinkle of worry creasing her smooth brow. "Why?" asked Jaime simply. Not only was his little brother, who he both loved and resented, perhaps heading to his death directly north, but so was their close friend. "Why send them north?"

"Tormund's men at Castle Black and the Shadow Tower have given us word of breaches similar to the one at Eastwatch. They are smaller but no less dangerous, and are giving way to the wights and their leaders. We are safe for the time being, as we have not come across any on this trek yet, but we must remain vigilant, as they can attack at any moment. Tyrion and Bronn's vanguard will aid in the protection of the wall." The King in the North's dark eyes looked around the small company in the tent. Jaime's stomach turned at the thought of Tyrion fighting White Walkers. You underestimate Tyrion, he told himself, he has survived Cersei.

"Daenerys and I have flown Drogon and Rhaegal over Eastwatch's breach, and have attempted to take out as many of these walkers as we can; their fire is not infinite, but we killed as many of the fuckers as we could find," said Jon Snow. That explains the stink of smoke and ash, Jaime thought. Jaime trusted that Jon Snow knew the right path to take, but his worry for Tyrion was a knot of chains in his gut.

Jorah Mormont clenched his gloved fist. "Viserion?" he asked Daenerys directly, searching her eyes. For fuck's sake, thought Jaime, turning his head towards Brienne. All of them have names? He cocked an eyebrow at her.

Daenerys' stern mask slipped away momentarily. She shook her head minutely. "I got them to call out for him. But… there was nothing. I doubt he would recognise me, since he's…" she trailed off. Her voice was sad, and Jorah and Grey Worm shared a mournful look. Daenerys gazed into the brazier's flames and Jaime was suddenly mesmerized by her; not in any emotional sense, he knew that; but the shimmers in her silver hair and eyes seemed to call and reply to the fire. He looked away when he felt Brienne's blue eyes on his again. When he looked at her, she looked away.

Jaime returned to his current situation, and lifted his golden hand, as if he were asking his septa a question in his childhood lessons. Jon Snow nodded at him.

Jaime cleared his throat. "You rode these dragons and burnt a portion of these dead men," he began, waving his heavy golden hand around, "well and good. So… why not go and… well, burn them all?" he choked a bit on those last three words, thinking of Bran Stark's eerie farewell. "You have these magical creatures that can melt ice with their own breath, for fuck's sake. These are ice men. I'm no Tyrion, granted, but isn't that the most logical and tactical approach to this battle? Seek all of them out and just…" Jaime gestured to the brazier.

Jon Snow shuffled uncomfortably. Daenerys inhaled patiently, if not a bit exasperatedly. "It's not quite as simple as that, Kingslayer." She said the name scathingly, and Jaime had to bite his tongue. Don't anger her, he reminded himself, remember the Tarlys. But Jaime was not afraid of her.

Jon Snow took a step forward. "It's a difficult idea to…"

"The Night King and his army, if you didn't know, Kingslayer," interjected a new yet vaguely familiar voice, as deep as honeyed thunder, "can create new soldiers as quick as they like, from existing corpses. The dragons can kill as many as they can for the time being; but once these White Walkers find more cadavers, and they will; they will bring them back."

Jaime's eyes moved to Beric Dondarrion. He frowned. "You seem to know an awful lot about this, Dondarrion."

The side of Beric's uncovered eye crinkled, warping the eyepatch on the other. "You could say I have experience."

Jaime's stomach quivered in a cold, unfamiliar way. He looked back to Jon and Daenerys.

"You cannot find all these soldiers," stated Brienne suddenly. Jaime felt his stomach fill with affection for her, and appreciated her stalwart presence at his side. With you here, he thought, I am not so alone in this dreary place. The thought of their shared hug kept him warm. For now, at least.

Daenerys' sour expression softened at Brienne's voice. She shook her head. "There are so many of them," she sighed, "and they just keep coming back. They are coming from many chinks in the wall."

"For every one they burn, ten are made. I still find it hard to believe myself," said Davos Seaworth.

"If you'd been where we've been, Onion Knight, seen what we saw, you wouldn't find it so hard to imagine," rasped Tormund Giantsbane, slapping Davos on the shoulder. Ser Jorah nodded in agreement.

Jon Snow walked away from the brazier, deep in thought. "They've already dispersed down the east side of the continent, towards the Last Hearth and Karhold. We tried to get most of them, and succeeded to an extent. It seems they could reach Winterfell at any time, and we are but a thousand leagues East of it."

The tension and fear in the tent warped and grew. Jaime felt his stomach tighten with dread, unlike any he'd felt in battle. "So this… Night King," said Jaime, "you can't find him?"

They shook their heads. "He could swoop down and take us all at any moment. That is why Daenerys and I will be alternating standing guard for the night, as well as Grey Worm and his Unsullied. As will the Dothraki, and a number of my northmen. You will all serve your time as guards on this journey, but I'd recommend you all get some rest tonight, as any night could be our last. When morning comes, be ready to leave as soon as possible. Try your best to stay warm. We will leave at sun-up. "

Jaime was trudging through the dirty brown sludge of snow and ice back towards his tent when he heard heavy footsteps fall in beside him. Too heavy.

"You'll be all alone tonight in the cold, won't you, princeling?"

Seven fucking hells. Jaime stopped and turned towards the voice, and Tormund Gianstbane's ruddy beard glimmered in the light of the giant fire and the moon. "I'm tired, Giantsbane. Is it an apology you want?" he asked, gesturing towards the bruise the shape of very hard fingerprints on the Wildling's cheekbone. "Because I do apologise. It was unbecoming of me."

"Un… becoming?" Tormund frowned quizzically.

Jaime groaned internally. He searched for another word. "Impolite," he tried. "To hit you."

"Har!" boomed Tormund, his beard sending out small snowflakes in every direction. "I don't give a fuck that you hit me. S' the spirit of the chase, isn't it?" they were walking side by side now, and it made Jaime uncomfortable. "I said some things that weren't so polite towards the big woman, due to me' wildling blood. I can see she wants me, though," he purred. "All women want to become women in all ways eventually. I can give her anything better than she's ever had."

She's never had anyone, Jaime thought. "The chase?" he spat. "Are all you wildlings so…"

"Wild? Aye," Tormund responded, "but we get what we want. And I know exactly what I want," He slammed a giant hand onto Jaime's back. "And I want her."

Jaime made a disgusted sound. "It's pretty fucking obvious you do, judging by how you spoke to her at the feast. Why are you telling me this, Giantsbane? It's freezing, I'm tired, and we must get up at dawn on the morrow. Go back to your tent, fuck a wilding girl instead," said Jaime, shaking his head.

"None of my kind so sweet to look upon as her," said Tormund wistfully. "To touch a smooth, muscled thigh…"

He lifted his chin to meet the Wildling's eyes. "If you so much as touch Brienne when she does not want you to, believe me, a slap with a golden hand will not be the end of it," he snarled.

Tormund lifted his gloved, furred hands. "Ye' can join us in our tent, f'you like. We do what we have t'keep warm, eh?" he winked. "Put that other hand to use." His immense figure turned and began to walk away, heading further than Jaime's own tent.

Jaime balked, and couldn't stop his feet from following Tormund. "What do you mean, our tent?" he had watched as Brienne trekked back to her tent, and it certainly wasn't near Jon Snow's, which would be where Tormund's would be. Wouldn't it?

"Mine and the big woman's," said Tormund. "We all got to have someone to keep us warm once winter comes, and it's here, isn't it?" he guffawed. "I'm kissed by fire, lucky- luck enough that I get to share with her. Maybe there'll be more than just keeping warm." And with that, Tormund Giantsbane spun around and left in a flurry of Wildling furs.

Jaime inhaled the cold air, and turned heatedly towards his tent.


	9. Chapter 9

Brienne could never get used to the Northern conditions.

She lay on her rough pallet bed, wrapped in her provided furs. The torches around her flickering in the dark; in Tarth, they never had such weather, and when it was cold it was a crisp, autumnal cold. This was ruthless, harsh, and unforgiving.

Her mind was in too many places this tempestuous night. Sansa and Arya were in Winterfell without her, and though she knew that the Hound, with whom she had found a truce based on their mutual affection for the girls, was with them, she could not shake her concern. Arya can hold her own, she reminded herself, and they have many other seasoned warriors with them. But honour always demanded otherwise for Brienne of Tarth.

The thought of Podrick was a blade in her heart. After hearing that there were breaches in the Wall north of Winterfell made her insides squirm. She cared more for that boy than she had ever thought she would, and to imagine him perishing in such an awful way sent chills through her. Warrior, protect him, she prayed, mother, let him live.

Then her mind wandered, inevitably, to him.

When he had shown up at Winterfell, she could hardly believe her eyes, seeing his cocksure smile and his golden hair having grown out, almost as long as when they had met and had despised one another with every ounce of their beings. She was unfathomably relieved that he had abandoned his sister. Seeing him sitting loyally at Cersei's side in the Dragonpit, months and months after their reunion at Riverrun, had brought back all these sentiments and thoughts of words left unsaid that she could not quash. When she had told him to fuck loyalty, she prayed her words would convince him to think, just for once. And they had, and gods, she was glad they had.

Jaime's behaviour towards Tormund was another thing altogether that she did not understand. Brienne had experienced similar japes before; only Renly had shown her a sliver of light and an ounce of unfeigned interest in an ugly woman's world. Until now. Tormund's lust for her was no secret, and Brienne was unsure how to handle his advances; he was not un-comely. He was crass, sometimes vulgar, but she could tell that under those Wildling words that he had a good heart. She knew he was not japing, as he had so often told her.

In planning for the Great War, Brienne had concluded that any sexual or amorous liaisons would be a distraction. As much as she tried to deny it and conceal it, she had a gentle woman's heart, which was as shrouded in armour as she was. But did she come face-to-face with death, she would die as she had lived. Unloved, unwanted, and unworthy. I failed you, Renly, she thought, and you, Lady Catelyn. But she had not failed Ser Jaime.

She had not believed that Jaime cared for her to such an extent, even when he had told her that he thought she was the only thing worth fighting for. She had not even thought to hope such a ludicrous idea; not until their embrace, and those soft words that he made sound as sharp as lion's claws. She conjured up the sensation of his arms around her and her heart swelled. The feeling dissolved as she recalled him pulling away from her in Jon Snow's tent, avoiding her eyes. He is as changeable as the winds of winter, she concluded, he is kind and then he is cruel and then he is kind again. Her hand moved to her scabbard that lay by her side, beneath the furs, and she ran her gloved fingers over the smooth Valyrian steel inside.

Her shivering musing came to an abrupt halt when the opening of her tent was shoved aside, and a huge, looming silhouette entered. Brienne shot up and drew Oathkeeper. "Who enters?" she said, before Tormund Giantsbane's face was illuminated by the torches fire, his wiry red hair glowing.

"Tormund?" Brienne rose to her feet, shuddering as the bracing breeze entered through the crack in the tent. Her stomach was in her throat. If he tries anything, she thought, no one would hear my protests over the wind. Jaime would not promise him sapphires. But she knew Tormund, or she hoped she knew him; he would not try anything. Or would he? She was distrustful. "What are you doing in here?" she snapped.

Tormund's bravado seemed to slip for a moment, until he gave a hearty grin. "I thought you may be too cold," he said in a voice that Brienne could only assume was an attempt at being seductive. It gave Brienne a sense of discomfort. "My tent is awful' empty."

Brienne wrapped her furred cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I will be alright, thank you, Tormund."

Tormund took a brave step towards her. Stupidly brave, she thought. "If I die before getting t' taste your sweet southern lips, Brienne of the Island of Tarth, I'll be dyin' a lonely man," he growled, his voice animalistic. Brienne's stomach turned, and her hands began to perspire despite the cold. He was awfully close, and his warm breath smelt of dried meat.

"I…" she stammered, lifting her hands, "I am not… I do not think this journey, or the time…" she flushed, looking at the ice below their feet. She took an unsteady breath. "…I am sure there are other women, from your Wildling clan, who would be glad to…"

"I don't want none of my kind," he interrupted, stepping even closer. His voice lowered, and his face softened. He looked directly into her eyes, and she could see a glint of… almost… was it fear?... in his eyes. "I want you. Just once."

Brienne froze. This is when you are meant to say yes, her mind urged. Do you want to die a maid? How many times had she dreamt of, as a young, foolish, fanciful adolescent, to hear those words from a decent man's lips? To be desired for what she was, a shambling, overgrown warrior? She fought to find words. He was so close… if he even leaned in slightly, he could kiss her.

She had never been kissed. Never, let alone anything else. She could easily have him have her, and that would be it. But…

I do not want this, she thought, her mind suddenly clear and unfazed. She did not want him to. No, she did not want him to.

Brienne almost cried with relief when she heard a horn sound bleakly from the other side of the camp. They jumped back from one another, startled. Then realisation dawned on them as a second one sounded… and a third blow.

They stared at one another, drew their weapons, and rushed out of the tent.

The camp was in chaos. The dragonfire in the centre of the camp was almost horizontal with the wind, and Brienne looked immediately towards Jaime's tent as she and Tormund exited. She could see his hardened knight's silhouette exit his tent, and as if he knew, he looked directly towards her own tent. As trivial as it was, she felt her heart sink as she realised Jaime would be seeing her exit her tent with Tormund at her side.

But that did not matter now.

Tormund put his huge hand on her shoulder, then dashed towards the direction of Jon Snow's tent. Brienne hurried in the direction of Jorah and Davos' tent, and felt a short hand clutch her arm. "My lady, we are under attack," she heard Davos' flea bottom accent yell over the wind, and her stomach dropped.

As quick and as sudden as the wind, the rush of men and women around her, Dothraki and Unsullied and Northmen and Knights, encircled her and Ser Davos and carried them in a chaotic stream to the east side of the camp, behind the King in the North's tent. There was screaming and yelling and bedlam. She could hardly breathe through the sleet and wind and snow, hardly see for the dark and the ice in her eyes, hardly think and hardly feel. Dothraki men kept screaming "Ifak! Ifak!" and Brienne could only assume the worst.

She could not see him, oh god, she could not tell him… tell him… she had wanted…

A helmeted Unsullied soldier appeared beside her as she pushed forwards toward the front of the squirming pack of furred, armoured people she did not recognise in the dim light of the moon. Her mind was overrun by fear. "Dead!" yelled the Unsullied soldier over the pandemonium. She recognised his voice to be Grey Worm's. "TOGETHER! STAY!"

Before Brienne could take a breath to steady her mind for the battle, an eerie grey mist enveloped the pack, and a feeling of utter doom and hopelessness and cold overwhelmed her. She shuddered, her teeth chattering, and fought her way to the side of the group.

The vanguard dispersed outwardly, and Brienne was filled with terror as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a vague silhouette of something, something human but not, rapidly approach a man only ten feet in front of her.

"TO YOUR LEFT!" she screamed, moments too late. She watched the wight knock the man to the ice below. She lurched forwards, grunting, and delivered her first blow to the creature before she could even comprehend what she was doing, but her glove had frozen to the hilt and she stumbled forwards. Brienne never stumbled.

The man on the ground below screamed, screamed, then stopped. Brienne could not pause as she vaguely made out nearby fighters battling ominous, shrieking dark figures through the mist, and within seconds she was face to face with a dead man.

She delivered a hard blow through its ribs, but missed as it lunged backwards, her vision impaired by the mist and the snow crusted on her eyelashes. It disappeared from her scope of vision, but appeared again startlingly close, with bloodcurdling shrieks emanating from its sunken mouth. Brienne felt herself scream as she staggered forwards, and with every ounce of strength she had, shoved Oathkeeper into the creature's ribcage.

Its scream pierced, and its skeletal form shattered into the roar of the wind.

The vanguard had dispersed so widely and the mist was so thick that she could only make out half a dozen others in her peripheral vision, when another rattling, gaunt and rotting wight charged towards her. She could hear nothing but the wind, and saw nothing but this thing, snapping at her wildly. She pushed Oathkeeper into its skull and watched it perish into the mist, when she heard a yell over the wind.

"BEHIND!" they screamed.

Brienne turned rapidly as another one jumped at her, but it was too quick- she felt a tearing, burning pain rip at her face as it bit her cheek. She screamed in anger and agony as she lifted a heavily clad leg and pushed the creature backwards, and plunged Oathkeeper into the wight's core.

The mist had lessened, but the sleet and wind and falling snow obscured everything. Vague outlines of her fellow warriors danced and darted through the blizzard. Blood froze on her ravaged cheek, the wound congealing within milliseconds. She started in fright when she felt a presence at her back.

"BACK TO BACK NOW!" Jaime's voice yelled, and Brienne's relief came in a surge of energy and a sudden revival, despite the cold and her tiring muscles. Dead men were coming in steady waves, and Brienne could hear Widow's Wail crack through and splinter the wights, echoing Oathkeeper. They circled, Brienne making sure she could feel his weight on her back every now and again to make sure he was still there. The only sounds were the metal of their swords meeting bone, the wind, and the soul-piercing shrieking of the wights.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours that they slew in unison. Brienne looked over her shoulder briefly, and was shaken to the core when she saw two luminous blue eyes, too blue, sauntering in their direction. She felt Jaime's weight lift from her as he attacked the creature. She heard the White Walker shatter, and the wind suddenly dropped, and all the dead men surrounding them dropped in synchronisation. Jaime and Brienne rotated rapidly, and they could make out perhaps half a hundred others wielding their weapons in confusion. She was almost sure she could see Jon Snow's wolf, Ghost, on its haunches.

Around a mile to the left, Brienne could see the shapes of the two dragons circling in the night sky, laying waste to the army of the dead below with their flames. But it seemed that their side of the vanguard had…

Brienne turned to Jaime, and seeing his ice-encrusted hair and bearded face, his left hand holding Widow's Wail, and his golden hand at his side sent her relief that she had never felt before.

Jaime was looking around blindly, then looked at Widow's Wail. He looked up at Brienne, and pulled her towards him into an embrace that was different to the one earlier that night. They were both shaking, shivering, and silent against one another.

The pulled apart, and without speaking, they ran towards the dragonfire. This war had only just begun.


	10. Chapter 10

What was left of the vanguard that had fought five-hundred metres east of the camp stumbled through the whipping, sleet-laden wind. They were following the eerie glare of the dragonfire that emanated through the mist; Brienne's chest was burning with the cold air, the frozen snot and blood encrusted on her face congealing. Brienne felt the presence of perhaps ten others scuffling beside her, coughing, wheezing. She recognised Jaime's heavy breaths to her right, crackling with phlegm and ice, and thanked the Warrior for keeping him alive another day.

A deafening roar reverberated over the wind, and from behind the group another fire bloomed, scorching both their dead and the Night King's, the wights she and Jaime had fought bursting into flames. Still they did not stop. They passed the dim outlines of numerous bodies, their deceased comrades simply dark, dead things on the ice. My first true battle, Brienne thought vaguely, though her thoughts were not so much thoughts so much as a stream of numbed consciousness. Her mind at one point drifted to Sansa, to Arya, to Tormund Giantsbane, to Podrick, to Jaime. Let them survive this, she prayed, let them all survive, even if I do not. As Brienne ran, it dawned on her, bleakly, that any day may truly be their last. Let him survive.

After what felt like hours of running towards the flickering light, they came to a wheezing, hacking halt before the largest fire she had ever seen, an inferno that raged over at least forty feet of dead men, presumably both wights and their own losses. Brienne looked up to the night sky, and inhaled as she saw the silhouette of the greatest dragon against the moon. The winged shadow was scouting the area for danger, and every minute like clockwork breathed golden flames into the abyss below.

From each direction, at least a hundred of their remaining combatants arrived to what had become an unofficial assembly near this roaring conflagration. Brienne searched all their faces, Dothraki and Unsullied and Northmen and Wildlings, and the fear and full fatigue in their eyes was an echo of her own. Oathkeeper trembled in her hands, the adrenalin coursing through her, and her mouth was so dry she could not close it. Her armour felt heavy, and her pounding heart was vibrating her breastplate.

"They're gone for now!" a voice yelled from behind the fire, and from it stepped Beric Dondarrion, clutching his flaming sword as if he himself had just been birthed from the flames themselves. He stood before the throng of fighters. He looks half dead, thought Brienne, eying his bloody face, his eyepatch missing, revealing a withered, sinewy hole, and he looks half a god. "We have survived this night, and this battle, but there are many more to come, and many more dead men with them," Beric shouted, barely audible over the gales of wind, "we need to burn our dead!"

"What about our injured?" shouted a voice. Others started murmuring in agreement.

"We need the maester!"

"She's bleeding out!"

"Where's our king?"

"We will wait to receive orders from our king. Our maesters may well be dead! Tourniquet what you can with any rope you can find from the remaining tents, and I will cauterize anyone who has need of it." Beric's voice resonated over the horde, and everyone went quiet, save for heavy breathing, chattering teeth, mutterings of translation from the Dothraki and Unsullied, the weeping of the mourning, and the whimpers of the injured.

Brienne remembered she, too, was injured, as she lifted a numb hand to her cheek and felt the ravaged skin there. She felt Jaime step in beside her, and she winced. She suddenly felt ridiculous that she wanted to hide her ugly wound from him.

"Where is the King in the North?" a ludicrously loud voice boomed in Dondarrion's direction. "The dragon queen?"

Her eyes darted across the fire, and she caught a glimpse of a fiery beard and felt relieved. She may not love him, no; but Brienne did not believe Tormund Giantsbane deserved anything but life. She felt Jaime's eyes on her face, lingering then straying.

Beric opened his mouth, but his words were surpassed by the screech of a dragon. Everyone looked up, and illuminated in their own flames were two circling shadows. In this light, they could well have been vultures. Brienne felt Jaime grab her arm and yank her backwards.

"BACK! STEP BACK!" she heard an Unsullied yell, and everyone began to scream, hysterical from the battle, their fear renewed by the idea of being crushed by these enormous creatures.

The two beasts shrieked from the darkness of the wintry sky, and it was only when the smaller of the two made its landing beside the fire that people could see where they were coming from. It shook melted snow off it's scales, and then the rider, nestled between the plates on its back, came into view.

On the smaller dragon's back was a fur-clad Jon Snow, ashen and bloody. He slid off its glistening moss-green back, and Tormund was immediately there to catch him and hold him up. He held Jon Snow's face in between his hands and embraced him. Jon's white wolf emerged from seemingly nowhere and Jon fell into its fur.

The immense black monster landed in the middle of the fire, crushing the scorched corpses beneath it. Smoke blared from its nostrils. It was a scene from the Seven Hells. However, Brienne could not see the dragon queen on its back.

She looked to Jaime, who was still holding her armoured arm. He was shivering, almost to the point of convulsion, his breath only a tiny mist between his gritted, chattering teeth. Brienne's heart swelled as she looked at him, the flecks of snow in his beard and hair and eyebrows, and the sheer relief he was there, at her side, not across him on the battlefield, was enough to warm her momentarily.

Jon Snow got slowly to his feet, leaning heavily between his wolf and Tormund. "We…" Jon began, his eyes rolling back, "we have not won yet," he croaked as loudly as he could. "The wights we have fought this night are gone, but we have also lost many of our own, and we will lose many more. This is only the beginning. I have burnt many of our dead, as had Daen…" when Jon Snow looked towards the black dragon, his voice trailed off. The dragons had become restless, and a sound that Brienne would never have expected came from their snouts, a whining of sorts.

Jon's eyes widened, and suddenly he returned to being the King in the North within moments. "Take all who are injured back to the camp and tend to their wounds with boiling wine and whatever bandages or tourniquets you can find! All who are not, search the battleground for anyone who is still living, and burn those who are not! Tormund, Dovaogēdyr, with me. Dothrakhqoyi, essalat!" he pointed to the camp. Brienne did not understand what he was telling the Dothraki, but she assumed he meant for them to return to camp. Jon Snow's eyes fell on Jaime and Brienne. "You two, with us."

"Yes, your grace!" every Wildling and Northerner chanted, dissipating off in the directions from whence they came. Those who carried their injured headed westerly back towards the camp, which was visible from where they stood. Those that were left of the shivering, frostbitten Dothraki hesitated, clearly uncomfortable without their queen (or Khaleesi, which Sansa had told Brienne) but they turned and headed back to camp. They were slow, lost without their horses, a large portion of which had been mauled by the wights. Brienne started towards Jon Snow, when she felt Jaime's hand on her shoulder. She looked at him, and suddenly she too was lost.

"You're injured, Brienne," he said, his voice impossibly soft. "Go back to the tents." His brow was creased with concern.

"I won't let injured fighters go unfound because of a bite on my face," she said shortly. Jaime sighed.

"It's more than a bite. Let me help you clean…" he began, then his head snapped to the dark side of the fire, and he stared into the empty darkness. "Hear that?" he said.

"We need to keep searching," Brienne said hurriedly, ignoring his question, but he was frowning with curiosity. She continued towards Jon, Tormund and the Unsullied. "You fought off a bear with one hand, this is hardly a wound at all." She walked on.

As she arrived in front of Jon, Brienne felt Tormund's eyes burning into her from beside him. His eyes were glistening and wide with awe. Her stomach twisted with guilt.

"Your cheek, Lady Brienne," said Jon Snow, "are you sure you do not want to go and get that rinsed?" His face, too, was bruised.

Brienne smiled gently. "It can wait." Brienne turned to Jaime, but he wasn't beside her. "Ser Jaime?" she asked, but when she turned around she saw his armoured shape emerge from the darkness. His face was sombre, almost sad, and Brienne's stomach turned.

"Lannister," Jon Snow said curtly, until he registered the expression on Jaime's face was not the usual cutting Lannister smirk, battered and riled. His eyes darkened. "What is it?"

Jaime swallowed, jerking his head backwards. "She needs you."

Jaime looked back towards the darkness, and Jon Snow sprinted without a word into the shadowy battlefield beyond the fire. Brienne, Jaime, Tormund and the small group of Unsullied followed, and then was when Brienne saw her. Saw them.

Daenerys' small, fur-clad figure was huddled over something on the ground, someone, her silver hair dishevelled and smattered with ash as she rested against the frozen figure. Jon Snow rushed over to kneel beside her small, shaking figure, and he put a gentle hand on her back, and whispered a few sorrowful, gentle words.

"We need to burn him," Brienne heard Jon Snow whisper. Daenerys began to weep, shaking her head. Brienne couldn't take her eyes off the body, and she could only see herself, weeping over Renly's dead body, waiting for him to wake up and say it was a jape. When the horrific thought of Jaime lying there intruded her mind, she pushed it away. She couldn't bear the thought. The Unsullied around them had taken off their helmets, and rested them against their chest.

"I can't, I can't," Daenerys repeated, her soft voice breaking, a vulnerability which Brienne had never heard from the strong dragon queen. "Not him, not him. I can't, Jon, please, I can't." Brienne couldn't see the face of the dead man. "He was always there, he died for me, he saw me struggling and just…" she dissolved into sobs. "I can't."

"We have to, Dany. I'm sorry." He held her tight, but she wouldn't move. "You'll die out here. I know it's hard, I've lost friends, so many friends in battle. But you need to live on. For him, for us all."

Jon Snow took her in his arms and pried her from the body. "No, no!" she tried to scream, but her voice was too weak. Silent tears freezing on her cheeks, and Jon embraced her tightly as she wept into him. When Brienne saw who is was, she felt her heart ache.

Jorah Mormont's fine face, once so comely, was a dappled grey and white, his eyes wide open and bloodshot as his lifeless corpse lay half covered in snow. His frozen hand still clutched his Greatsword.

Jon Snow turned back to Jaime and Brienne. "Back to the tents. Fix that wound," he ordered. They nodded, and made the long walk back.

Somehow, a majority of the tents were untouched. Jaime's, however, had blown away in the wind, despite the iron pins that had been hammered into the ice. The camp was almost desolate, except for the moans of pain that came from those who were more severely injured being treated by others who had fought. Brienne hoped they would last through the night.

Her and Jaime were silent as they entered one of the remaining tents. Jaime had managed to salvage his linen sack, digging it out from under the ice, which held meagre supplies of dried mutton and ale. They'd brought a burning log from the large fire to light the torches with, but they kept blowing out in the wind that crept under the tent entrance.

Jaime groaned as he warmed his hand and wrist under his golden hand, which was perfectly cupped for containing ale, over one of the torches that had managed to keep alight. "Ah, fuck," he said, "that's a bit better." He turned to Brienne, who sat on the small pallet bed, her body already aching all over. She looked up at Jaime, his green eyes glistening. Was there ever a man more beautiful and dangerous? She thought. She could hardly believe that only hours ago she had been talking with Tormund in a tent, and that had been the worst of her problems at the time. She shook her head to herself for her folly. Hundreds of their own were dead. Jorah Mormont was dead.

"We've lost so many tonight," said Brienne. "Dothraki, Northerners, Unsullied, Mormont."

"That is the way of war. And the way of war is terrible. You know this.," Jaime responded, sounding old. He picked up his sack and came over to sit beside her, carefully making sure not to spill any boiling ale from his golden hand.

"Clever," Brienne mumbled. Brienne felt more tired than she had ever been before. She had known this was going to be the most difficult time of her life, of all their lives; but gods, this, this was perdition.

"Let's take a look at this," said Jaime, peering at her ravaged cheek. Brienne felt her cheeks flushing, and her hand moved to hide the bloody gash. Jaime caught her hand, and Brienne became anxiously aware of how warm his breath was against her cheek. "Brienne, we've just had a battle against dead men. I don't care for a bloody bite." His voice was as tired as she felt. She sighed, then removed her hand.

"How does it look?" she asked grimly. She knew it was bad, but she didn't know the extent.

"Like horseshit," Jaime said. Brienne grimaced. "I'm japing. It's bad, and it will scar, but it will be alright. I'll wash it the way Qyburn washed this." Jaime lifted his stump. "Prepare yourself for pain." He gave her the pouch and she took a few swallows, the heat of it warming her insides. Jaime tore off a piece of cloth from the sack and dipped it in the hot ale in the hand. He looked up at her, searching her eyes questioningly.

Brienne nodded, her hands beginning to sweat, from the pain or his proximity, she did not know. "Do it." She'd been kicked in the cunt by Sandor Clegane. She could handle this. Jaime paused. "Do it!" she grunted again.

Jaime nodded, and pressed the wet cloth gently to the gaping wound. The burning pain seared through Brienne's cheek, and she hissed through her teeth. "Fuck!" she swore. Brienne snarled as she saw the side of Jaime's lip twitch.

"I know, I know." Jaime dabbed the cloth lightly, rousing another curse from Brienne, then dipped it back into the ale. The only solace she had was how soft his touches were. "I'm going to go a little bit further under the skin. Just forewarning you, I'm no maester."

Brienne bit her lip, then nodded again. Jaime pressed the cloth to the wound, then dug under the torn skin minutely. Brienne let out a yelp, tears burning behind her eyelids. Black spots covered her field of vision. She grunted as her hand dug into the pallet straw, but her other hand, she hadn't noticed, was scratching into Jaime's armour.

"I'm sorry, I know it smarts. But there's always a risk of infection."

"Just… keep going," she spat, doubling over.

"Stubborn wench. You're doing well." Jaime dabbed the wound here and there, poured some ale here and there, and then when Brienne thought she was going to pass out from the pain, he stopped.

"I think it should be clean enough now," he leaned in as he examined the wound. Brienne let out a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you let me help for once."

She lifted her heavy eyelids to look at him, just look at him through a blur of tears. Square jaw, green eyes, sharp nose. Brienne felt that bizarre warmth return. "Th… thank you, ser J-Jaime," she said through her teeth. Jaime paused, then picked up another few pieces of cloth.

"Don't thank me. It's repayment for this," he lifted his stump, now void of the golden hand. He'd taken it off without her noticing. "All those times you scrutinized that rotting skin and sinew. Ah, the smell of shit and vomit that arose from my beard and clothes, those were the days, weren't they, Wench?" he said, to which Brienne smiled weakly. "We're going to have to patch it up." Jaime dipped some strips of cloth into the ale, knelt in front of her, then plastered them over Brienne's wound. His left hand was shivering, his fingertips calloused, but his touch was as gentle as a maid's.

Brienne closed her eyes under his hand, just savouring the feeling of someone touching her face. No one had ever touched her face, save for her father. She felt Jaime's hand rise to place another strip of bandage on her wound, but felt no dampness. Just skin.

Brienne opened her eyes, and the expression on Jaime's face was bewildering. "Ser Jaime? Is ought amiss?" Her stomach tightened, and blood rose to her face, to her stomach, to her loins.

Jaime's lips were pursed. His hand was still on her cheek, just resting there. "I thought you'd been killed tonight," he said, his brow furrowing. "That you had… become one of them." He shook his head. "It was Mormont I saw go down in the field, but I thought it was you, until I saw that it wasn't Oathkeeper he was holding." His voice was shook, on the verge of breaking.

Brienne swallowed, the pain of the wound lessening slightly, but the pain of this conversation worsening concurrently. "I had thought the same of you." Her mouth was dry. She felt his hand creep from her cheek to the nape of her neck, the weight of it reassuring. Brienne's heart was in her throat, and his chapped lips were so close. She wanted… she wanted…

But she couldn't, not now, not here. There was no time. This was war, and war was terrible.

"We fight side by side from now on," Jaime said fiercely, interrupting her vague, detached thoughts, his voice a deep growl. Brienne inhaled sharply, and Jaime moaned under his breath at the sound, and pressed his forehead to Brienne's own. "Brienne," he breathed, and his eyes drifted shut.

Brienne felt a sob rise in her chest, her cold, overexerted lungs aching. She did not know how long she had waited to hear her name slide from his lips like that, she did not know. A surge of courage shot through her tired self, and she reached up and softly rested her hand on his jaw, feeling the roughness of his greying beard, searching his face, remembering it, savouring it. Never had she touched anyone's face like this, and she likely never would again. She might never touch his face again.

"Can you… Ser Jaime," Brienne said, overwhelmed. Jaime pulled away, eyes downcast, his lips parted. She felt aware of her wide, dour face, her ugly wound, her dishevelled, straw-like hair. But still she asked, "please stay."

Jaime's eyes were soft in a way that she hadn't seen since their meeting at Riverrun. "I will."


	11. Chapter 11

Brienne's armour was digging into her side as she lay on her damp pallet bed. She could only lie on her right side due to her wound, which pulsed numbly, her skin too cold for sensation despite her thinning furs and lone torch.

I need to be out there, she thought vaguely, I need to be helping. Honour demanded it. She opened her eyes, letting her vision grow accustomed to the dull torchlit darkness, when she was suddenly aware of Jaime's sure presence beside her, his silhouette also fully clad in armour.

He had left to scout with the other uninjured fighters some hours ago, after Brienne had asked him to stay- but she understood that they must all do their duty. He had promised her he would return, despite her weak protests for her to go with him. The sensation of his hand on her face and his forehead on hers lingered, a flicker of warmth in this cruel cold.

Somehow, Jaime had snuck back into the tent while Brienne tried to rest her weary limbs and grit her teeth through the pain of her ravaged cheek. He sat on another half-frozen pallet bed which he had pulled to rest alongside hers.

"All clear?" Brienne asked quietly, and as her eyes adjusted she could see his face, bruised and bearded and encrusted with frost. She had only earlier been touching that same face, and he had touched hers with tenderness she had not known since she had seen her father. Has the moment past, she wondered, was it a gesture of comfort in friendship and comradery?

"For now," he said. "We're on rotation in order to get some sleep, but who… who could sleep after that?" Jaime shook his head, shivering. "After everything I've seen, Aerys burning innocents, a rotten hand around my neck, the purple corpses of my own son and father… but that…" Brienne heard him swallow, then pause. "How are you feeling?" he gestured to his own cheek.

Brienne heaved herself up to a sitting position. She had lain down in armour often enough, but post-battle it was excruciating, each metallic curve and edge jutting into ever bruise and strain and ache. "I've had worse," she said instead. Sandor Clegane, she thought, please protect those girls. Even yourself.

Jaime snickered through his chattering teeth. He groaned, then coughed, his breathing a wheezing splutter. "Don't worry yourself, wench," he said, noticing Brienne's concerned expression, which she hadn't even realised she had been making. "I'm still adjusting to the climate. It's no Kings Landing."

"Nor Tarth." Brienne smiled softly as Jaime coughed violently. If he suffered from a rheum… Brienne could not even fathom the thought of an illness taking him. "I appreciate that you fought by my side tonight, ser." She touched her numb cheek, the wound concealed by strips of frozen cloth. "And for this."

Jaime closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. "My honour, lady Brienne." He smiled weakly, exhausted.

"My thanks, Jaime." I ought to forget the word ser, Brienne thought. It means nothing now. A weighted silence fell between them, the wind outside wailing like some dark spirit. Her armour was digging into her lower back, distracting her from the dull ache of her cheek. "We ought to get some rest. We continue eastwardly on the morrow."

A blaringly loud gale of wind shook the tent, causing the pair to start. "That's if we don't freeze over before dawn. Not that I'll be able to sleep for fear of those things," mumbled Jaime, looking down at the armour gauntlet on his left hand, then holding it out to Brienne. "If you would…?"

Brienne nodded before he could even finish the question, taking his hand, which was gloved in armour. She slid it off, revealing the woollen glove beneath. Jaime opened and closed his hand and flexed, sighing in relief. "Thank you. I, for one, don't want to awaken in a frozen steel crypt. And I couldn't feel my hand, and got worried."

I don't want to be the first Lannister to drown in a bathtub, his own voice echoed dimly in Brienne's subconscious. Jaime did not take off his golden hand- he instead started to unbuckle his breastplate, then his cuisses that covered his thighs, revealing his chainmail hauberk and padded gambeson, along with his mail skirting and thigh padding. Underneath the armour, we're all the same, Brienne thought. Soft and human and easily killed, even the strongest of us. Her stomach fluttered.

"You'll be … warm enough?" asked Brienne, her chattering teeth providing sufficient irony for Jaime to laugh.

"I will be fine. My armour isn't quite so mobile as yours, see. You had someone who had actually fought have yours made. If the gaps between each component freeze in mine, I'm a dead man." Brienne helped Jaime unfasten his gorget, reaching around from the back. Brienne felt a strange urge to touch his skin, so warm. He shivered violently as the cold touched his neck. A bloody graze, half- frozen, ran along the nape. Brienne took a leftover strip of cloth and patted it into place as gently as her fumbling fingers could.

Jaime turned and smiled at her in gratitude. Brienne felt at a loss under his gaze. "Here," she said, handing him one of her furs. It crunched under her hand with frost. "Rest, at least."

Jaime looked from the fur to Brienne, then back to the fur, still smiling faintly. "Thank you." He took it from her, and lay down, exhaling heavily.

Brienne did not want to take off her armour in fear of needing to don it in haste- it was a habit she'd never gotten out of since travelling with Podrick, who did unfasten it every now and again, but when they were travelling the Kingsroad North, it was too much of a risk in case of Bolton men.

She lay down, her mat dipping slightly beneath her weight. She lay on her right side, aching, her wound facing upwards as to not aggravate it. A lump in her chest rose to her throat as she looked at Jaime, who lay on his back no more than two feet away from her, eyes closed, chest rising and falling beneath the fur. He shivered minutely.

"I wonder how Tyrion is," he said quietly, eyes still closed. "If he has fought those things like we did…" Brienne could sense the fear in his voice. She could also hear the name Cersei resting on the tip of his tongue, but she knew he would not want to talk of her. Not yet. When he's ready, she thought, he will talk.

"I am quite sure he would be fine. I do not know him well, but from what I've heard he is a survivor," she reassured.

"I suppose you're right. How not? He has survived thus far."

"I worry constantly about Podrick and the girls," Brienne divulged. "I know well that they are perfectly capable of looking after themselves, but it doesn't stop the thoughts creeping in." she cringed as she heard her voice tremble. She hated feeling weak, but more oft than not, she could not dismiss her emotions; her ability to conceal it was different.

"We all become concerned for those we care about. The first time…" Jaime began, then shook his head, "… no, the second time we parted, after Oathkeeper, my thoughts went to you often. I wondered if you were happy, if you were hurt, if…" he trailed off.

Brienne's body coiled. Do not say that to me, she thought, her throat tight. You made this as agonizing as it could be when you first walked through Winterfell's gates, when you told me I was worth living for. "I wondered the same of you," was what she said instead.

Jaime looked at her strangely, eyes soft. He gave a resigned chuckle. "Do you ever think, if we could tell our past selves after our first meeting, that we would be worrying about one another? That we would be fighting in bear pits, travelling across the country, being taken captive, losing limbs…" he shook his head in disbelief. Brienne breathed a laugh through her nose, which was half-frozen. She tugged her fur upwards. "… fighting dead men together. Sharing a tent at the gates of the seven hells."

"I can tell you that I would not have believed it, had the ghost of Baelor the Blessed himself been informing me," Brienne replied in a low voice. As she was lying on her side, the single lit torch in the tent created dancing shadows on Jaime's smirking face. "I abhorred you."

"Hah. I'm glad the feeling was mutual," Jaime purred, and his voice sounded so painfully Jaime that Brienne had to close her eyes. The action distorted her cheek's haphazard dressing, and she winced. "You talk a bit more than back then, though. Now I hear one or two words and I am amazed that your tongue works at all."

A small smile begged on her lips to grow, but she restrained it. "Talking never was my strong suit." That's what her septa had told her. Neither looks nor a tongue. She shuddered as the cold crept into her bones, and wrapped her fur up tighter.

She opened her eyes to see Jaime lying on his side, facing her, so close she could see the ice crusted on his eyelashes and beard. A line appeared between his brow. "We would be warmer if we shared the furs. Double layers and all." He hesitated, his eyes searching her face. "Are you comfortable with that idea?"

Brienne paused. She felt herself nod, the cold too much for her. She would not get out of her armour, though. "I'm afraid I won't offer much warmth in this," she said nervously, sitting up.

"No matter, Brienne. Here." He draped his fur over both of them, then took hers and layered it over the first fur. "This should be a bit warmer. If warm is a concept this far north." They both lay on their backs, their meagre bedding pulled close.

I did abhor you, she thought. But imagine had we not crossed paths. She cherished the feeling of his shoulder pressing lightly against her own. She closed her eyes tightly. Was this what it felt like, she wondered, to care about someone so deeply the thought of living without them would be unfathomable? She had thought that living without Renly was unimaginable, and it had been painful, yes...

But the thought of Brienne's world without Jaime Lannister was simply wrong. Had they never met, they would not be who they were. Brienne didn't know what to call what feeling surged within her at that moment, but she did not care. It didn't need a name.

"Good night, Jaime." She thought of Tormund, kissed by fire, and wondered if he was keeping warm. But all thoughts of him drifted sideward at the feeling of Jaime's steady weight beside her. It was marginally warmer, but the single torch was flickering due to the wind that crept through the tent flaps, threatening to blow out. "Thank you again for… helping me."

Jaime nodded. "Good night, Brienne."

Brienne felt her heavy eyelids fall shut, a strange, broken state between consciousness and subconsciousness. At some point during this odd stage of the night, their hands searched for and found one another in the dark. Only then did the sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

When dawn came, it was as if the battle during the night hadn't even come to pass- the ice and sleet had wiped the slate clean, burying the dead in a shroud of white.

The ride continued eastwardly, and Jaime could feel the energy draining from him with every second that passed. He felt his face growing gaunt, his beard a thick, wiry mass of silver and gold. His muscles ached from the last fight, and even his horse was growing thin, the poor creature's ribs digging into Jaime's arse through its coat. Jaime was afraid it would give out beneath him.

The ride was harrowing, the weight of loss and grief heavy on the group as they rode. Everyone was in pain, physically. They had been riding around eight or nine hours, silent except for the barking of orders. Jaime had only seen the silhouette of a dragon once, which he found strange since Daenerys had taken them to Winterfell and Castle Black earlier that day. Her grief was visceral for Jorah Mormont, so much that even Jaime could tell.

Grey Worm had told Jaime that morning that Daenerys had taken her dragons to Winterfell and Castle Black, to scour the areas. A raven had arrived from her telling them that a great battle was underway at Winterfell, and Jaime's stomach lurched when he thought that Tyrion may be there. He would be there, he knew deep down. His heart had wrenched when he saw Brienne's face, her concern for the girls and Podrick overwhelming her. Jaime had told her he had faith in their skills, similarly for Clegane's and Gendry's.

Gods, he worried for Tyrion, though. Even Bronn.

Jaime wished he was in Winterfell, fighting the dead in the place where they had thought would resist the creature's temptations. He felt useless here in the cold, empty middle grounds of the North. He wrapped his fur closer around him, looking around at his fellow soldiers. He found her immediately.

Brienne rode a few metres behind him, her face patched with dark red and brown misshapen dressings. She caught his eye for a moment, when suddenly the horde halted when a number of horses began to whinny and wicker, rearing up.

Standing on the stirrups, Jaime could vaguely see that two or three horses had collapsed with exhaustion and hunger, their Dothraki riders laying stunned, trapped beneath the poor beasts. There was some commotion as Wildings, who walked, attempted to lift the dead weights of the steeds off the riders, and continued on.

Beric Dondarrion appeared on his horse beside Jaime's, his furs as thin and sparse as his beard, which hardly covered a fresh cut from the fight. He barely seemed to notice the cold, Jaime noticed, as the man did not shiver in the slightest. Jaime had learnt that shivering was a constant for him this far North. "This is madness," Jaime shouted to him. "We won't make it to Eastwatch in these conditions. Didn't Snow predict this?"

Beric looked forwards, screwing his face up. "We're not going to Eastwatch, Kingslayer. They have plans," he shouted back. "They just haven't executed them properly." He nodded to ahead of them. "Look."

Jaime looked over the group and saw the grand silhouette of a stronghold, a beacon of hope in this dreary north. The Last Hearth, Jaime realised, and that sense of hope soon dissipated when Jaime realised this was where the White Walkers and their army had been predicted to be ransacking. The Seat of House Umber. When Jaime turned back, Dondarrion was gone.

The horde was still stationary, waiting, wondering. What's taking so bloody long? Jaime thought. He was a commander. I ought to be ordering this lot around if we're going to get anything done. Jaime's musings were interrupted by Jon Snow's voice. That surprised Jaime, since he hadn't seen him part from Daenerys Targaryen.

"We are going to attack them from all sides," he yelled from the front of the group. Jon Snow didn't ride a dragon today. Instead, he was mounted on a horse, his great white wolf looming beside him. His voice was overridden by the howling wind, and Jaime missed half the orders. He did not need to hear them, though. He knew what Snow would do, and as young as the bastard was, he knew battle very well, if not as well as Jaime himself.

"… once we have split, then we will enter the gates and kill as many of the fuckers as we can. There is a good chance that…" Jon paused, barely audible over the wind, "there is a chance that there won't be any living residents left."

The scattered bannermen and members of House Umber, usually as vocal as the Wildlings, were silent. "But we must needs keep fighting. This war is far from over. With me," shouted Jon, turning his horse around in the snow, headed for Last Hearth. "Weapons drawn! Archers, loose when Ser Davos gives the order!"

They inched towards the castle, its grey walls seemingly impermeable; a layer of shimmering blue ice covered the exterior of the castle. But all castles, really, besides the Eyrie, were permeable. Even Highgarden, Jaime thought derisively.

The ice and snow made it difficult for them to split, but into four groups they split still. "Lannister, you're in charge," Snow had told him. Jaime felt those familiar butterflies of pre-battle anxiety build in his stomach, more persistent than with human battles. That made Jaime laugh internally; there were now human battles and inhuman battles.

Bile rose in Jaime's throat when he realised Brienne wasn't in his group. He pushed the thought from his mind and led his group, comprising of a two dozen Wildlings, three Dothraki and two Unsullied, around the perimeter of the stronghold. Jaime reached out his golden hand to gauge how solid the ice covering the walls was- it was as hard as granite. They eventually came to the gates, and Jaime lifted his golden hand to stop them.

"Halt!" Jaime's group came to a standstill in front of the portcullis, which was wide open. The internal courtyards were easily visible, blanketed in ice, all built structures reflective beneath the thickest ice Jaime had ever seen.

"Fuckers are hiding from us," spat a Wildling woman, Val, from beside Jaime. Jaime had never met her before today, but she was headstrong, and a great beauty besides. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back, and her piercing eyes were as green as his own.

Jaime never wanted to look at her again.

"We'll have to smoke them out. Draw your weapons," he said instead. He kneed his horse and cantered forwards, over the portcullis and through the gates.

"We wait for the King in the North," boomed a voice from behind him. Jaime recognised it. He reigned his horse around and saw that another group had arrived at the gates. Tormund's group.

"You can," said Jaime cuttingly, turning his confused horse back around. Last Hearth's courtyard greeted him with mist and frost, silence and stillness. Still no sign of anything. We can't have missed them, thought Jaime. We can't have.

He heard a disgusted groan from behind him and heard horse hooves follow promptly behind him. Both groups were now inside Last Hearth's walls, and Jaime's heart was in his throat as he drew Widow's Wail. Anticipate the worst, he remembered his father telling him, then it won't seem as bad as it is.

The wooden battlements that lined the walls of the Last Hearth were similar to that of Winterfell's, but they hardly looked wooden anymore. They were positively cobalt. The grey and white stones were covered in thick, blue ice, and the stairs that led into the halls and chambers were shimmering and pristine, the ice on each step uncracked and as solid as stone.

Jaime realised now that all the fighters were now within the walls. He caught eyes with Jon Snow, whose dark eyes were grim as he clutched his giant longsword in his hand. He then searched for Brienne, and, ridiculously, felt himself panic slightly when he couldn't see her silver-blonde head towering above everyone else's. He eventually found her, and scolded himself for that moment of weakness. Bullheaded Wench, he thought, don't die today, either.

There were no sounds except the wind and the echoes of their horse's footsteps. It looked as if nothing had been touched in a millenia; hell, it looked like the Wall, if Jaime had heard right. Even when the Dothraki and Wildlings went and searched every hearth, hall and chamber, there were no dead men, or alive ones for that matter, to be found. They came back with confused expressions and clean arakhs.

"Empty," Jon Snow said, the word reverberating around them all.

Jaime looked around at the vast sheets of ice coating the parapets. "It looks like it's been empty for years," he said. The group murmured in agreement.

"It hasn't been." Jon Snow's voice was as icy as the walls. "I know it hasn't been."

"Where are… Umbers?" Greyworm, unflinching in the cold, asked flatly.

"They're gone," Jon Snow replied stormily. "The dead have already been through here. We've missed them."

The whole group erupted.

"We're useless here!"

"We should go back to Winterfell! Why did we even leave if the battle isn't here?"

"Where are they now? Are they all at Winterfell?"

"QUIET!" Tormund yelled, appearing beside Jon. Jon nodded in thanks. Jaime noticed Tormund's eyes searching eagerly for someone; Brienne, no doubt. Jaime's neck tightened unwillingly as he noticed Brienne flush and look down at her reigns.

"The dead that passed through here could have either gone to the Dreadfort or further south, or to join the battle at Winterfell," Jon Snow barked, but an undercurrent of patience softened his tone. "Daenerys will send a raven telling us what she sees, and that will decide where we will go tomorrow. I'd wager they've gone... Winterfell is under siege, aye, but they are seasoned fighters and I have a lot of my best fighters out there. We go where Daenerys says we go, and if it happens to be Winterfell where all the dead men have gathered, so be it, we return. If they are even further south, then we go further south. The people of Moat Cailin and the Neck are not going to be prepared, so we fight for them."

Jaime's stomach wrenched at the thought of them reaching Kings Landing. He would not let them get that far. He would not.

"I am sorry you have all come here for nought, but I can assure you, it will not be nought for long," promised Jon Snow.

Last Hearth's Great Keep was a frozen labyrinth. Jaime knew that somewhere within, Jon Snow was going over plans, and Jaime wanted a hand in it. They'd all scanned the Keep for danger, but all was clear. But plan they must.

Jaime was stuck in his own world of battle and logistics as he descended the stairs to the Great Hall, when he heard Brienne's voice from below. His shoulders felt lighter somehow. He followed her voice and there she was, standing with Jon Snow, Ser Davos, Grey Worm Tormund and standing around a large table in the dim hall. The Dothraki, Wildlings and Unsullied sat at tables, eating what supplies of dried mutton they had, the Wildling's treating the unaccustomed with their frostbite.

Jaime scanned the hall, his eyes falling on the Wildling woman, Val, her startling wild beauty a welcome sight. She caught Jaime's eye, nodding. Jaime looked away quickly, her blonde curls and pouted lips too pretty, too Cersei.

He walked up to stand beside Brienne. She turned her head and her eyes were pained. Jaime's heart sunk. What hurt you, he wanted to yell, who hurt you? Instead, he just gazed back at her, bewildered. When Jaime looked around at the group at the table, a still, empty sense of sorrow was tangible. Jaime looked back to Brienne, who was looking at her hands. Jaime could not bear to see that look on her face. Please look at me, he plead.

"Daenerys has sent a raven," said Jon Snow grimly. "Winterfell's attack is worse than what we've seen last night. She burnt what soldiers of the Night King she could see, but with it she had to burn a part of Winterfell as well. There were casualties. But the largest part of his army has gone even further south, as I predicted. Dany has attempted to take out as many of them she could find, but she fears that they have dispersed to cover a wide range."

Shit. Jaime took a deep breath. Tyrion somewhere near Winterfell, Cersei in the South… "So we follow them." A handful of people in this world Jaime cared about, and two were in danger. He thanked the gods Brienne was by his side.

"We follow them," said Ser Davos.

Night fell heavily. Jaime dragged his hand along the walls of a chamber, one he had allocated himself as Jon Snow had told them to do in what they assumed was the Great Hall. It had probably only been days since an Umber had slept in this room, breathed its cold, stale air, and it unnerved Jaime more than it should have. He'd slept in the King's bed and fucked the queen in it, for pity's sake.

His mind wandered to Brienne. That morning, he'd woken up before her, and she looked like a different person when she slept. The hard lines were softer, and Jaime had wanted to lie there for longer, just breathing and resting, but he had to wake her up. He had gotten too close last night, in the hysteria of battle. Had it been hysteria?

He conjured up her shocked blue eyes, her forehead warm against his, and he felt a stirring deep within his core. All these unfamiliar sensations were swirling inside him and it worried him because deep down, he still felt as if these thoughts were a betrayal to Cersei and that they meant nothing. She was still a part of him, even now.

He stood by the frosted window, and sighed, unbuckling his armour. When he was done, he sat on the edge of the feather-bed, and sighed heavily, revelling in the softness. He had been contemplating his love for Cersei for months. Do I even know what love is? He wondered, stretching his aching muscles. What I am without her? He examined his body, prodding the purpling bruises dappling his forearms and thighs.

His love for Cersei had been twisted, reckless, forbidden. But she had been his world. Everything he had done, he had done for her. And now he did not want her. But that didn't mean he did not care for her. A part of him would always love her, and he would not let her die. Never.

Jaime wondered if Brienne's wound was faring well. Jaime had been poring over his reactions last night; he had feared losing Brienne to the dead men more than he had ever feared losing Cersei. Seven hells, I went senseless when I thought she was dead, he thought. Jaime had gone mad with rage, cutting down as many wights as he could, and when he saw her standing, Oathkeeper in hand, he thought he could weep with relief. They had been through a lot, the pair of them. Bears, sapphires, chains, hands, scars, blood, Roose Bolton, Sansa and Arya, oaths, and now dead men.

He smiled tiredly, re-donning his breastplate and leg armour but not bothering with the arms, and left his chambers. Mayhaps he would find Brienne on his watch- they were on rotation once again.

The Hearth's halls were now lined with torches, and Jaime appreciated the luxurious warmth more now than ever. If Winter had not come so harshly, the Hearth would have lived up to its name. He wandered the winding corridors, passing heavy chamber doors that he could hear guttural Dothraki conversing tiredly behind, snoring behind others.

He passed Davos Seaworth as he was going up the stairwell, nodding in quiet acknowledgement. Jaime reached the door that led to the parapets and peered around, goosepimples rising on the nape of his neck.

"Lannister," he heard footsteps approach him from the stairs. Jaime turned and Jon Snow stood just below him, dark hair unkempt and loose, and Jaime suddenly remembered they had talked in the courtyard of Winterfell a lifetime ago. "You'll get some rest around midnight. You'll be on watch with Brienne until then. Beric and I will take over afterwards."

Jaime paused, eyeing the bastard up and down. "Good man. Why aren't you sleeping now, Jon Snow?" He realised he'd never addressed Jon Snow as anything. He had no idea what to call him. He was just Ned's bastard.

"I don't really sleep anymore." He walked up to Jaime's level, half out the door.

Jaime nodded, not really understanding. "Is Daenerys…"

Jon shook his head. "Without Mormont, Tyrion or Missandei by her side, she feels lost. I can only do so much. She's… struggling with Mormont's death." His tone suggested there was more, but Jaime didn't push it.

They both exited the door, walking along the walkway that lined the castle's exterior. It was slippery and the snow was coming under the cover sideways- Jaime felt his age when he held onto the glistening side rail. Jon led Jaime to where he'd be standing on guard for dead men- Brienne wasn't there yet.

"Didn't Mormont spy on her for Robert?" Jaime asked as they walked. Jon Snow nodded. "Well. I suppose we can all come to trust those who have wronged us. Losing a loved one is…" Jaime recalled Myrcella dying in his arms, Tywin's body on the stone slab, and Cersei, who was almost dead to him. "… it's difficult."

The darkness that arose in Jon Snow's eyes was bone-chilling. "Aye. It is."

A silence the shape of Robb and Eddard Stark hung between them. "If you are at all… dubious about my allegiance to fighting for the living, I need you to know that Cersei has lost me. Completely." Liar, her voice resounded in his head. Almost completely.

Jon regarded Jaime, his eyebrows pinched together. He had learnt how to walk on the ice without so much as a misstep- he may as well have been a Wildling. "Many of my fighters have tried to tear you out from the group. Say you're a liar. Tell me to send your head back to King's Landing for your sister to…" he trailed off. "… but I haven't listened. I could've. I wanted to for a damn long time."

"Tormund Giantsbane, I presume, is one of them?" Jaime asked. Jon Snow's face didn't flinch in the slightest. "I suppose I can understand it. What reasons do you have to trust me?" Jaime chuckled. He was appreciative, but could understand Snow's fighters' point. Jaime's father, in conjunction with Walder Frey, had ordered to kill Robb Stark. Cersei had kept Sansa captive. Jaime had led the coup of Eddard Stark, killing Jory Cassel in the process. His son had been the one to execute him following that incident. He had attempted to murder Bran.

"Trust is a strong word. You're an able fighter, and one who could help us end the Night King's army." Jaime bristled at the word 'able.' He'd been gifted, once. "Tyrion used his talent of convincing people, too. Trust me, he had to do a lot of that. And that… Ser Bronn," Jon Snow replied. "And Brienne." They reached the turret Jaime would be watching from, the torches flickering in the wind.

Jaime smiled. "The strange company I keep pays off, then. My protectors."

"Protector?" Jon Snow said in a questioning tone.

Jaime frowned slightly at Jon Snow, quizzical. "Of sorts."

"That's what Lady Brienne is to you, then."

Strange. "Well, not exactly."

"When Sansa told me that the woman who was protecting her wielded a Lannister sword and wore Lannister armour, I did not trust it for a second. Then I met her, and she is… so loyal, almost too honourable. Sansa told me you and Brienne had a shared history, and that was even more unfathomable to me. That she could be affiliated with someone so despic…"

Jaime accepted that blow. Heard worse, he thought, for doing less. Kingslayer. He was surprised to hear so many words from Jon Snow, habitually so sullen and of few words. "The lady Brienne and I were the oddest of travelling companions."

Jon paused. "Do you hit people with your golden hand who try to woo Bronn, too?"

Careful, boy. He didn't realise Snow had a side as snarky as Jaime himself. Jaime straightened, giving a hard laugh. "You'd better go and get some rest if you're going to remain King in the North."

"Sansa can handle the north better than I ever could." He looked out over the wintry wasteland that was the Last Hearth, and turned to leave. "Grey Worm will blow the horn if anything does happen, and I shouldn't have to tell you what to do. See you in some hours."

Jaime nodded, and Jon left.

The wind was no less biting than it had been, but the turret Jaime stood in had a roof, thank the gods. The moon was hidden behind black clouds tonight, but the torches gave enough light to be able to see coming threats. He thumbed Widow's Wail absently, ready to draw the blade at any given moment.

He stood on guard for a while, his beard crusting over with snow once more, trembling in the cold. Where are you, wench? He didn't want to leave his post, but he had been waiting long enough. He walked carefully along the wooden walkway, passing Grey Worm, Wildlings and others along the way and came to a halt when he saw an immense figure- no, two immense figures- standing across from one another, mere silhouettes. Undoubtedly Brienne and Tormund.

Jaime snorted, watching Tormund make ridiculous hand gestures. He never gives up, does he? Jaime felt his throat tighten nevertheless. He watched warily, hoping Brienne wasn't in any trouble. He thought of her injured face and the gentleness of her sleeping face; she was more vulnerable than she made out to be.

His eyes adjusted to the light of the torches along the walls and wondered if he should go and show Brienne their post. Might as well save her from his advances, he thought, but as he took one step forward, so did Tormund.

Jaime stopped in his tracks as Tormund's hand snaked around the small of Brienne's back- Brienne pulled away his hand, stepping backwards. A ball of heat pulsated inside Jaime's chest and throat as he strode towards them, and his anger hit a crescendo when Tormund hoisted Brienne towards him, pressing his lips to hers grotesquely.

The next thing Jaime knew he had Tormund pinned against the icy wall, his golden hand and flesh hand pressing hard into the skin of the Wildling's throat. "You just don't learn, do you, Giantsbane?" he hissed, bending Tormund over backwards into the gap between the parapets, his fiery hair and beard accentuating the ferocity on his face. He held Tormund's face over the edge of the wall, looking down from the height.

"I don't have my reputation for nothing. I could toss you over this wall without a second thought." He pushed Tormund quickly then pulled him back, a threat. "You have no idea what I could do," he purred, pressing his wrist harder on Tormund's throat. The Wildling's eyes bulged.

"Jaime, stop this!" Brienne ordered, her voice fierce, but her eyes said otherwise as Jaime looked at her for a split second.

She was terrified… of Jaime. Jaime felt something inside him snap back.

Oh, gods, had he become Cersei?

He faltered, and Brienne pulled him upwards with all her strength, forcing him backwards into the opposite wall. Jaime felt the air leave his lungs, coughing heavily.

Tormund heaved himself upwards with all his strength, taking Jaime by the furs around his neck and twisting. "You fucking cunt," he spat, "the only reason I haven't gutted you is because she would have my cock cut off and fed to Jon's wolf!"

Fool. You're a bloody fool, Jaime, he thought, staring into Tormund's wild eyes. He looked to Brienne, whose face was contorted in contempt, her wound's dressings crinkling. Jaime's dressings.

"The only reason I haven't gutted either of you is because you're both somewhat able fighters. Trust me, I would gladly throw you both over these walls if you don't stop this bloody nonsense right now!" Brienne shouted, her blonde hair dishevelled as she hoisted Tormund backwards.

"He forced himself on you!" Jaime shouted back, pointing his golden hand towards Tormund.

"And I told him to stop and he did! Honestly, gods be true," she looked between them, disgusted. "We could die at any given moment and you both believe you have some… some obligation, some ownership of me?" she laughed hardly, "this isn't a feast anymore. You are acting like green boys."

Jaime's shame arose quickly as he pored over his actions, done again without thinking. "Brienne…" his voice was on the verge of breaking. He didn't understand why he had acted so rashly yet again- it really was the feast all over again, but worse. Much worse. He had threatened to kill the man without any wine whatsoever.

"Don't," she barked, but her eyes were moist as she avoided his gaze, "There is NO time for this. You told me you knew I could protect myself. Don't come rushing to my aid, ser." She looked at Tormund, who didn't take his eyes off Jaime. "And you," she said, "never presume to touch me again, in any manner."

She pushed past them. "Men," she spat, leaving them to guard by themselves.


	13. Chapter 13

Brienne stood at her post, gazing out at the austere landscape, grey in the night. She took a number of deep breaths, trying to remove the taste of Tormund's beard from her mouth. My first kiss, she thought bleakly. It all felt like some sick joke Jaime and Tormund had conjured up to taunt her, reminiscent of her adolescence.

Kisses weren't important, though, not when the end was near and death marched upon the country. But the soft woman's heart hidden deep within her whispered that maybe it did matter to her, and now her first kiss had been stolen.

Tormund had pushed his lips onto hers, hot and wet, and Brienne had kneed him in the crotch before Jaime had time to see that the Wildling was doubled over in pain. Time and time again, Brienne had refused Tormund's advances, yet he did that anyway. It sickened her. She did not believe Tormund would ever try to rape her, no; but his kiss had been enough for Brienne to know he did not respect her decisions or her autonomy. She would hit him harder than Jaime had if he ever tried to touch her again in such a way. Or worse.

Jaime's anger had been terrifying, something she would only have recognised seeing in him before he was mutilated, when he had been ruthless and virile enough to threaten to kill everyone they came across, including herself. The way he had held Tormund over the edge of the parapet… it was merciless. He is still a lion, she thought, through and through. But she was disgusted by the pair of them, picking fights like youths.

I care about you, she remembered Jaime saying, but Brienne did not appreciate violence for her sake, unless it was single combat- a fight due to what had befallen her was beyond her control, and she didn't want to see them hurt. She had, however, recalled a certain daydream she had imagined when she was younger… Renly, pummelling all the men who had wronged her in that wager, and taking her into his arms, as his woman.

But that was a child's fancy.

She knew Jaime was supposed to be guarding their post with her, but he hadn't returned from where she had left the men yet. Not that she cared.

The ice was in her eyes and nose and ears and she went to pull her fur around her tighter, when she heard footsteps crunching the ice underfoot. She knew his footsteps and weight better than her own. "He shouldn't have done that," he said from behind her. She felt her hands begin to shake with nerves- she didn't want to see him after that, but some part of her wanted nothing else.

Brienne stared straight ahead over the sparse north. She said nothing. No, he shouldn't have, she thought, but he did, and I dealt with it. "Are you both done behaving like idiots?"

Jaime arrived at her side, looking out over their post as well. "I am. Don't know about Tormund, though." He sighed. "You're right, Brienne, I was an idiot. I am truly sorry. I'm the stupidest Lannister, it's true. And to be fair, I have always behaved too rashly when it comes to you," he said. "But he needs to learn boundaries. He could've torn your wound or worse. Are you honestly saying you were alright with him kissing you without anything to suggest you desired it? I was trying to protect you!"

"If you hadn't attacked him without witnessing what was happening first, I stopped him before you intervened." Brienne's stomach fluttered. Why can't you be to the point for once? She thought, why must you speak so cryptically? She clenched her jaw. Say what you mean! She wanted to scream at him. "I've told you before, I don't need your protection. I'm not your sister, Jaime!" The words tumbled out before she realised what she had said. Jaime's head jerked as if he had been slapped, and Brienne regretted it immediately. "… that was… not worthy of me, ser. Forgive me." She had wanted to gain some sort of reaction from him, some reason why he was acting so bizarrely.

Jaime shook his head. "No, no, it's… it's alright, Brienne. You're right, you're not Cersei." He looked at her, his green eyes sad, but it might've just been the golden hair blowing into his eyes. "You're as… far from her as anyone I've ever met. Honourable, loyal. Kind. You're a true… friend."

A true friend. For some stupid reason, those words hurt more than anything. And if he loved Cersei, and if she was not a bit like Cersei, then… well. Brienne looked at her hands. She turned to him, looking him straight in the eye. Her took a step backwards, maintaining eye contact.

She looked him up and down once, his face cast with shadows, and dared to ask him what she had been wondering since that night of the godforsaken feast. "If I'm the only friend in this world worth fighting dead men for," she started steadily, "why do you fight a living man, for my sake, when it matters the least?"

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, and blood rushed to her face. Jaime's mouth opened momentarily, then shut again, and Brienne wondered fleetingly if Jaime's beard was as scratchy and coarse as Tormund's has been. The wind blew loudly, and whipped their faces through the scant protection of the walls and covering.

"It doesn't matter the least," Jaime said after a beat. "It matters most, now of all times!" his voice rose. Jaime's eyes were wet from the wind, his chest puffed with anger and confusion. Brienne swallowed, her mouth dry. Say what you mean, her eyes begged him.

"Forgive me, am I interrupting?"

Brienne turned and Davos Seaworth stood across from them. "Not at all, ser Davos," she said, not looking at Jaime. But those words, it matters most, rung loud in her ears.

"Jon sent me to tell you he will take your post momentarily, and to retire to your chambers for the time being," Davos said, his eyes flicking between the pair. "There aren't any problems here, are there?" he asked, his kind expression hardening. Even now, Davos Seaworth could not come to trust her- while she had no quarrel with the man, he had been loyal to Stannis, and she could not accept that either. There would always be tension.

Jaime gave a tight smile. "None, ser. Just a debate to keep our blood flowing." Brienne recalled their first encounter with the Bloody Mummers, and Jaime saying they were married. How she had hated him then.

Davos nodded slowly. "Good to hear. I'll take it from here, Jon and Beric will be up soon…"

Brienne fled before he could finish speaking, and Jaime followed suit.

"Brienne, please, wait."

Brienne descended to her chosen chambers and cursed as her wound lost its relief from the freezing night air, the sting causing her eyes to water. She had avoided looking at herself, too frightened of what she might see, no doubt uglier than she had been already. She had left as quickly as possible after Davos told them to take their leave, a flurry of furs and Oathkeeper.

She reached the chamber door and sighed when she heard Jaime step down the last stair behind her. "I'm sorry. A thousand times over, I am sorry."

Brienne's jaw tightened. "You are not the one who needs to be sorry," she said, fiddling with the heavy latch, her numb fingers struggling to find purchase. When it finally clicked open, she entered; Jaime hovered in the doorway. "Tormund shouldn't have done that, and I am reviled that he thought he had any right to do so, be it a Wildling custom or not."

"No?" he asked quizzically, "then why are you upset with me? Why is the entire world always angry at me?" He closed the heavy door as loudly as he could, punctuating his question.

Angry? She was always told by her septa that she always seemed cross, even when she was crying. "I'm not," Brienne stated, stumped. "I am just… frustrated. I'm confused at everything you say. You are so… difficult, ser!"

Jaime scoffed, but didn't deny it. Brienne felt her wound sear with pain and winced, and Jaime's incredulous expression changed immediately to concern. "Does it need redressing? It's covered in ice."

Brienne turned, embarrassed that she had drawn attention to the hideous gash. She raised her hand to cover it. "No, it's alright." Jaime took a couple of tentative steps through the door, and Brienne breathed in quickly at the sight of him- his golden-grey hair in his eyes, his sharp face.

"You don't need to hide it, Brienne," he said, and hesitated.

"What is it?" Brienne frowned.

"Did he… did he handle you gently?" Jaime asked, and Brienne looked at him, taken aback. He continued, "I only ask because before the battle, I saw him come from your tent and I was worried he'd…" he lifted his golden hand in thought, "… you'd…"

What? Brienne thought. She felt herself grow flustered. "No! No," she stammered, her tongue heavy. Jaime nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor of the chamber. It was almost completely dark, save for the torch on the wall. Brienne took a deep breath. "What do you think I am, ser?"

"I didn't mean…"

"Why does it matter how he handled me? What do you mean by what you said on watch, it matters most, now of all times?" Brienne mustered up all her courage. She realised she was trembling, and tears were welling in her eyes, mortifying her.

Jaime swallowed audibly. "Because it does," he said, and his voice sounded so strange. "Matter now, I mean. Because we could die. Any day, we could die."

A lump rose in Brienne's throat. Don't say these things again, she pleaded with her eyes. Jaime's own green eyes were wide and conveyed an indiscernible emotion. She felt a hot tear run down her cheek, betraying her. "You make no sense!"

"Seven fucking hells," Jaime ran his hand over his hair, and Brienne realised he was shaking. He looked at her, his face pained. "It matters because I… I thought I could, but I can't. I can't handle seeing Tormund touch you gently, or speak soft words to you. Gods be damned, I don't think I could handle seeing any other man do such things to you! Anyone else, for that matter!" his voice rose, his words so fast and strung together Brienne hardly understood him. Her stomach dropped, and she felt her throat close over when she comprehended what he'd said.

His last words came out in a tone of realisation, as if he had only just deciphered a mental riddle. The words hung between them, echoing slightly in the large chamber, and Jaime's eyes were wide with fear at what he'd just revealed. He seemed as surprised as Brienne was, and closed his mouth.

Jaime, the Kingslayer, the man who jumped into bear pits, who had been knighted as Kingsguard at fifteen, looked truly afraid as he stepped towards her. He was closer than he had ever been to her before, his flawless Lannister features so close to her, snow melting in his hair. Brienne had no idea what to do- she was immobile. Brienne's breath hitched as stared up at her, and he concentrated so hard on her face that she felt self-conscious again.

He broke the silence. "I am a bloody fool," he said, the space between them minute. "We are both bloody fools. We have been fools for years and never realised." His voice shook, and she could tell he was as terrified as she was. Sweat beaded on her temples. "I know you deserve better," he breathed, his voice a deep purr, and Brienne wanted to weep at hearing those words. "This is not friendship, is it?" He toyed with his golden hand. "I am not a good man. You deserve an honest, kind, loyal man who matches yourself, not a Kingslayer, oathbreaker. Man without honour, who sired bastards born of incest, who has done more bad deeds than years we've lived," he said, his breath warm on her cheek. She remained still, her mouth falling open. "But I need you to know. Brienne… gods, I just needed to tell you."

Brienne opened her mouth to speak. "I…" but her words died on her lips as he leant slightly upwards and pressed his lips against her unharmed cheek, as soft as a breeze on her skin. Brienne froze, but almost immediately felt a rush of warmth in the pit of her stomach. A harsh breath escaped her as he pulled away from her cheek, his eyes searching hers. He reached up with his hand and rested it beneath her jaw. He smoothed his palm over the skin, warming her, igniting her profoundly.

"Don't," said Brienne, her voice cracking. "Please don't." This is not happening, she thought. She lifted her huge, overly-masculine hand to cover his hand that rested on her cheek, and she didn't realise that she was crying silently, tears streaming in rivulets down her cheeks. I will wake up soon, she thought, and this will be all a dream, a night terror of what I desire. His hand was so real, though. But how could he possibly feel the same way about someone so hideous and manly? She had to admit, the Tormund situation made sense, but she couldn't shake the idea. "Why are you doing this to me?" she asked.

Jaime's forehead creased in anguish. "Because I could lose my chance."

And suddenly his mouth was soft on hers, his beard coarse against the broken skin of her chin, and her stomach did somersaults when she came to understand what was happening. Brienne felt like a stone statue, ungainly, awkward and frozen and as his lips brushed her own; but he kept trying, testing, in a gentle, tentative kiss that let Brienne herself feel as if she were in control. Brienne felt herself unfreeze and relax into the kiss, and she realised she had found it, found everything, found him. His hand made its way into her damp hair and she realised this, this was what she wanted, what some part of her had always wanted. She lifted her hand to rest it on the nape of Jaime's neck, and never wanted to let go. This isn't real, she thought.

It all felt too short when he pulled away, and gods, Brienne could've sworn she'd never seen a man more beautiful, his golden hair dishevelled, his eyes hooded and his lips swollen. Both their faces were as shocked as each other's at what had just happened. His hand was still on her cheek. Then a smile, like a blind septon seeing the stars for the first time, rose on Jaime's face. He his forehead against hers, and Brienne felt her stomach rise into her throat, hover there, and swoop down from its great height.

Cersei Lannister's voice, vindictive and snide, resounded in her mind. But you love him, she had said, and Brienne hadn't even thought about the possibility since that moment. She had loved Renly, hadn't she? She had thought she had. Then came Oathkeeper, and Riverrun, and now…

Now she knew.

Their lips met again, this time with more force- Jaime dug his golden hand into the furs around her shoulders as the kiss deepened into slow, explorative undulations, and Brienne didn't know if what she was doing was right, but she didn't care because Jaime's hand was in her hair and the taste of their tears lingered on their tongues, but still they smiled into one another's lips. Their tender and slow kisses probed and tasted, and Brienne could've died happily right then, until Jaime pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her.

Then something changed. Both their smiles died as they looked at one another.

They crashed into each other, their kisses suddenly an elongated battle- their mouths were their swords as they surrendered to a heated, passionate combat, Jaime's hand twisting into her hair roughly. His green eyes blazed, and they kissed frantically, desperately, all tongues and open mouths and lips as they fought for dominance as they had years ago with their steel blades. She wrapped both arms around him roughly, and his hand was digging into her back, clutching her for dear life; they both breathed ragged breaths, their lips red and chapped but they didn't care, they didn't care. Brienne felt a euphoria she had never felt- it was almost painful, not knowing what could come of this, and tears spilled down her cheeks. They were trying to swallow and envelope as much as they could of one another as they possibly could, tumultuous in their passion.

Jaime pressed Brienne against the wall of the chamber, and his hand (and golden hand) went to her waist, where she had never been touched. As they kissed, Jaime gently nipped Brienne's lower lip, which elicited a small, surprised whimper. They were both breathing as if they'd run ten leagues, but their kiss was too intoxicating, and they needed it so much that they couldn't stop. Jaime ran his tongue along Brienne's lips, and she pulled him closer, yearning for contact. He bent his head and kissed her jawline, sucking and nibbling there, and Brienne moaned as she felt, to her shock, his hardness against her thigh.

"Oh, gods," Jaime breathed, and Brienne felt herself freeze in fear of the unknown- but her body began to move on its own accord, and she pulled her furs off from around her neck and shoulders, fumbling with the nerves. "Brienne, you don't... what are you doing…?" Jaime puffed, his eyes dipping to her surcoat and breeches, now unhidden by furs and robes.

"Making my choice," she managed to gasp back through her fear, and she clutched his back with both hands as she kissed him deeply, bravely.

"Brienne," he groaned between kisses, and she felt heat rise in those secret parts of her she had only explored a dozen times, that part that was so private, so personal that had guarded forever. She had touched it, rarely, when deliriums formed in the dead of night. But he was here, now, and she wanted to hear her name again- she had never dreamt that this could happen, to her, with him. Jaime pulled his own furs off with one fumbling hand, and Brienne unbuttoned his undershirt with trembling hands. "Gods, Brienne," he growled.

The hard, lean lines of his torso were suddenly bare, and Brienne remembered how emaciated he'd been in Harrenhal, how glorious he had been nevertheless. Even then, a part of her had known. Her breath caught in her throat, and her stomach fluttered like she was about to fall from the top of the wall as he unbuttoned her undershirt deftly with his one hand, and slipped it under to caress the soft skin of her ribs, tracing the linen of her smallclothes.

She pushed away that niggling thought that this was a farce as he pulled her lips into his, and suddenly they were moving blindly towards the bed, kissing fervently, surcoats and breeches flying. Before she could comprehend it in the heat of the moment, they were on the bed, and Brienne realised she was shaking. Her wound was sore, but nothing was more terrifying than this for Brienne. She had never thought she would find herself in this position.

"Are you alright?" asked Jaime softly, cupping her face with his hand. "If you've changed your mind… you need to be sure…"

Brienne shook her head, taking a shaky breath. "I'm sure. More than sure. You've seen me before."

She lowered her hands to her smallclothes. Jaime didn't take his eyes from her face, and his gaze was as intense as a lion's. She heard Jaime swallow nervously as Brienne sat up, and with a surge of courage, pulled her linen shift over her head. she didn't take her eyes from his as she disrobed. Jaime drunk her in, and Brienne fought the urge to cover herself. Suddenly, she felt hideous, her muscles too big, her breasts too small, her legs too long. She sat before him, her chest bare, and wondered if this would be when Jaime told her it was a jape. Jaime breathed in, his pupils dilating, and Brienne saw that it wasn't a joke.

"Gods," Jaime inhaled. "You are… glorious." He took her hand, laying it on his chest. "Even at Harrenhal, in the baths… you have no idea how long I've wanted you. Hells, I have no idea how long I've wanted you." He shook his head, his eyes softening. Jaime trembled as he unbuckled his golden hand, and threw it on the ground.

Brienne's heart swelled as she touched him, just over where his heart was, her hand slipping underneath his undershirt. Then, the gravity of what was about to happen hit her. Hit them both. She had been a maid her entire life- it was who she was. She was terrified. But so was he- he had only ever been with one woman in his entire life.

But when she looked at him, her fear became love and her love became want. Jaime's eyes were wide with wonder as he lifted his hand to her face, and Brienne nodded.

They kissed, slowly, surely, and the cold outside was forgotten in the heat of him, his lips against hers. As Brienne lay back, Jaime lay beside her, and she felt that heat pool in her core, in a way she had never felt, as he stroked her hair back from her wound. All concerns of her visage and ugliness melted away like snow.

Jaime took off his undershirt, and the wiry muscle beneath gave Brienne a reaction so unfamiliar but so wonderful that she could not help but reach out and touch him as he lay down beside her.

Jaime hesitated, trying to manoeuvre his stump so that it wasn't in the way. It was clumsy and unseemly, but she didn't care. Jaime clenched his jaw, ashamed, and Brienne sensed his humiliation.

Without thinking, she took his right wrist, and kissed the scar tissue there softly.

When she looked back up to his face, he had tears in his eyes. "Brienne," he whispered her name like a prayer, and leant in to kiss her. Brienne's body twitched as she felt every inch of his body against hers, and felt a jolt of fear and excitement as she again felt his hardness press on her hip. They were both on their sides, neither of them wanting to overpower the other.

"Can I…?" Jaime touched her side, and she swallowed, nodding once. He stroked the soft skin of her side, running his calloused hand down to the curve of her hip leisurely, and Brienne felt a stirring down below, a wetness forming there. "I want you to tell me to stop if you feel unsure," Jaime murmured.

"Thank you, ser," she said without thinking, and Jaime chuckled as Brienne flushed furiously.

"It is my honour, lady Brienne." He said her name as he had in the tent at Riverrun, smiling. His smile faded as his eyes filled with… no, surely not… lust? Brienne couldn't fathom that this beautiful man could feel aroused by her. He rested his hand on her shoulder, held her head up, and began to press gentle kisses on her neck, the friction of his chest rough against her own.

"Oh!" Brienne squeaked, her voice sounding terribly masculine, but she was in such bliss that she didn't even notice. Her eyelids grew heavy with desire and love. Jaime smiled at the sound, continuing down to her collarbone, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. "Jaime…" she mumbled.

Brienne lay back slowly, still shaking, but her own lust began to take control. Jaime took her hand. "Tell me to stop if you want me to, remember," Jaime reminded her.

She nodded once. He shuffled down the bed, and Brienne wondered what he was doing.

"What are you…? Ah!" She whimpered in delight as Jaime began to continue the trail of kisses, but this time down her torso, between her breasts and down her stomach. She had no idea it could be like this. Jaime kissed his way back up, but stopped at her breasts, and gentle cupped one with his hand. Brienne's breathing hitched and she watched in awe as he took her hardened nipple in his mouth, rolling it on his tongue.

"Jaime… gods…" she gasped as Jaime's mouth worked hungrily. She thought she knew about fucking- she had definitely not been completely informed by the men of Renly's kingsguard. She buried her hand in his golden hair, her chest heaving.

She looked down at him as he unlatched his mouth, and his eyes were so lustful as he moved down her stomach to her sex. She winced in shame, wanting to hide the thatch of thick hair in between her thighs, but then he kissed the lowest part of her stomach, and Brienne felt her hips buck, unbidden, and felt so ashamed- until Jaime pressed a kiss on the most sensitive part of her inner thigh. Brienne shuddered, then felt herself buck again when she felt the hot, wet pressure of Jaime's mouth on her cunt.

"Gods!" Brienne moaned, her hand twisting in Jaime's hair, holding him there. He smiled up at her, watching her writhe in pleasure. "Please, Jaime…" she whimpered.

"Patience, sweet Brienne," he said, and Brienne's heart soared as she heard those words. She felt the urge to cross her legs, but instead they sprung wide open. Brienne dug her hands into the sheets as Jaime flicked the sensitive nub with his tongue.

"Jaime," she felt like she could weep. Jaime shuffled his way back up to her so that he was aligned with her wholly, face to face, and Brienne could hardly breathe for the sight of him above her. "I had… no idea that is could feel like this," she breathed. Jaime looked at her, then rolled onto his side.

"You're beautiful," he said, and then his entire body ground against hers. Brienne would've been embarrassed had she not been so aroused when she fumbled for Jaime's cock, but she wanted him to feel the way she was feeling. It felt alien to her, a hard mast of flesh, but Jaime gasped in pleasure as she squeezed the tip through his breeches. "Oh, Brienne," he moved against her hand, and she maintained eye contact as she untied his breeches. He shuddered violently as his breeches slid to his knees, and his hardened cock sprung free. Brienne tried not to be afraid of it, but Jaime sensed it. "I will not do anything until you tell me to. You are in control here."

Brienne had fought dead men and had seen shadows with faces. She was a warrior, yet love was the most terrifying idea on her mind.

She could do this. She wanted to do this more than anything she'd ever wanted.

She carefully reached a hand down to caress Jaime's cock gently, up and down as he guided her. Jaime let out a moan of satisfaction, his eyes closing. His head was back and his neck strained. He made slurred, strange sounds, unaware. Brienne was still not quite sure if this was happening, but it was, and when Jaime slid his hand between her legs everything else was forgotten, dead men and oaths and winter and Tormund and Catelyn…

"J… Jaime," she said, "Jaime, I love you."

Jaime stopped, and Brienne's eyes flew open. You fool, she thought, what have you done? "I…" Jaime frowned, and Brienne's heart was on a ledge, threatening to jump. Had she ruined it all? Did he still love Cersei? She scolded herself, coming back to earth.

"Brienne." Jaime took a deep breath, looking down at her. "I… love you, Brienne of Tarth." And he kissed her and Brienne felt those stupid tears well up again, wetting her cheeks and his as well. "I love you," he kissed her again, "I love you."

She let out a gasp of a laugh in relief. "I love y… oh…" she was painfully aware of his hand resting between her legs, and she trembled as he pressed his fingers against her. Brienne was incoherent as he found that sensitive place again, circling it with his thumb slowly, tantalisingly. She pushed his fingers lower down, and he stroked her crease gently, and slowly, so slowly, he pushed two fingers inside her. She made an inhuman gasping noise and lay still, and Jaime slowly spread his fingers inside her, and she mewled in pleasure. "Ah…"

Jaime smirked, and Brienne couldn't move- it felt so bizarre but so incredible. Brienne could feel her muscles around his finger contracting and relaxing as she breathed. "Jaime, oh, that feels…" He pulled his hand away, and she felt mildly disappointed, but then she felt his hardness against her nub and they simultaneously grunted in ecstasy and anticipation. The friction of his touch gave little relief and she squirmed for more. Brienne shook with nerves, but she was so wet and wanted him, all of him. He ground against her again, and Brienne keened long and loud, her body writhing against Jaime's in primal ecstasy. All fear was gone.

His hardened cock slid around her outer lips, playing, teasing. "Fuck, Brienne," he groaned, and suddenly he rolled her onto her side, and he hitched her leg up around his hip, and Brienne gasped at his boldness. Her arousal built as she felt the tip of his cock rest on her outer lips, so hard, and she was all but dripping onto him, a maid for true. How had something so large stayed contained in those breeches? The throbbing ache between her legs was growing unbearable. She squirmed, the sensitive bud quivering with unknown sensations.

"Jaime… I want…" she whispered. Brienne felt her loins tremble, the heat in her core unbearable, and she knew. She nodded, over and over, and when she opened her eyes, Jaime was gazing at her in the same way he had gazed at her so many times before, but now it meant something new. "Yes," she said, as he slowly began to spread her legs, "yes."

His hand moved back the dripping heart of her cunt and it was a sweet hurt she had never felt.

Jaime inhaled, and looked down at his own cock. Brienne was gripping his shoulder tightly, her breathing speeding up. He slowly aligned his cock with Brienne's cunt, and her cupped her face as he pressed his tip against her opening. And suddenly she could see nothing but him and white clouded her vision. She clutched his back with a gasp, her lower belly dancing, her feet twitching uncontrollably.

"This might hurt, my love. I'm going to go slowly." he whispered raggedly into her ear. My love, she thought, her heart full. My love. "But I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't happen."

Brienne braced herself. "I'm ready," she said. She was a knight. And this was the best battle there could ever be.

Her fingers instinctively clenched in his hair as Jaime kissed her softly, then pushed inwards, with a groan of his own, through her damp inner lips; Brienne winced as she felt a slight burning sensation. "Keep… keep going," she said, and Jaime stroked her face. He slid further in, and Brienne felt a sear of pain as his length filled her, before her muscles relaxed, and Jaime cupped her cheek, sliding in inch by inch.

He stayed there for a few moments, letting her adjust to the feeling. She could feel how tight she was, and he paused. "Alright?" he panted, and she nodded, her mouth falling open. Her wetness around him was alive and moving. He took her hand in his, using it to pin her down. Her stomach began whole body revelling in the sensation as he filled her, and the pain disappeared, replaced with a sensation of wholeness and desire.

"Jaime… you.. can move… oh…"

She gasped. She stared at Jaime, who smiled, as he began to move, slowly at first. She could feel nothing but him, full to the brim with his silky smoothness, and a strange pressure was building within her all throughout her body. She could see nothing but Jaime as he slowly thrust in, and out. Brienne's hips were trembling vigorously as Jaime angled them, wrapping her legs around his taut waist.

He began to thrust slightly deeper, still slow, and Brienne raked her hand down his back, searching for purchase. "Please, more," she heard herself say, and she was so happy, so euphoric that she forgot everything in her life up to this moment. They found a rhythm eventually, and Brienne was all but weeping his name as he kissed her over and over as his cock reached the most inner parts of her, and she felt an inferno burn within her wet core.

"Jaime, Jaime, Jaime," she said through ragged gasps and kisses, and Jaime moaned at the sound with no thought to their volume. He thrust into her, the gentleness dissipating as he drew more whimpers from her, and Brienne felt him pulsate inside her and she could've sworn she had never felt so whole, so right in her life. His hand returned to the wet heat where they joined, and her stomach churned with the approach of something... still his fingers moved over that place, drawing it out of her as he simultaneously pumped slowly in and out of her, pleasure coursing through her.

His mouth hovered at her ear. "Brienne…" he panted, and he rubbed his fingers hard over that place, and the pain was forgotten. "I love you, I love you," he gasped, and felt her cunt clench, and she bit her lip to stop herself from screaming as Brienne felt a rush of warmth envelope her sex, flowing outwards from her loins as she wept his name, clawing his back, embracing him as she had never embraced anyone as they rocked against one another, gentleness a dim memory.

Jaime let out a yell moments later, and then the feeling of him inside her left her, and strange white liquid was emerging from him over her stomach, their bliss peaking; Brienne saw white, then his face, and then he was kissing her again, him, and she felt her sex pulse with electric aftershocks as she buried her face into his neck, seeking his warmth and love and comfort.

She had so many things she wanted to tell Jaime, but all Brienne could do was wrap her muscular arms around his chest, and Jaime wrapped her up in his arms at the exact same moment. And for once, finally, she felt safe, a woman for once in the arms of the man she loved, and together they slept, not caring for what tomorrow brought.


End file.
